


It Connects The Dots (from here to you)

by TheHatterTheory



Series: Hagalaz [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: All-Knowing Deaton, Anger, Depression, Derek Hale is Bad at Feelings, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Father-Son Relationship, Friendship, Growing Up, M/M, POV Multiple, Post 3a, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Self Harm, Sheriff Stilinski Feels, Side Story, Slow Burn, Time Skips, Triggers, Wangst, codas, dealing with the fallout, jossed by 3B, medication abuse, natural progression, personal responsibility is a bitch, perspective is important, righteously pissed off sheriff stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-18
Updated: 2014-03-07
Packaged: 2018-01-12 20:10:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 58,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1197948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHatterTheory/pseuds/TheHatterTheory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Codas to These Accidents of Faith and Nature</p><p>Derek wants to be left alone, but he's used to not getting what he wants.<br/>Scott tries, but a lot gets lost in translation.<br/>Deaton regrets.<br/>The Sheriff just wants his son back.<br/>(Stiles does not live in a vacuum. He tends to forget that.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Each coda will have notes on triggers, but if it's in TAoFaN, chances are it's in here. This bit isn't essential to understand TAoFaN, it started as coda requests and sort of got out of hand. Like the series in general.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remembering Stiles' suggestions, which would have been funny in any other life (but not this one, because becoming a hermit was a viable and even enlightened suggestion) he looked up at his house. Or what would be a house again. Eventually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coda to Chapter 1  
> AKA: Why Derek texted Stiles in the first place, making the plot possible. 
> 
> Warnings: Derek being Derek, canon typical sarcasm

He stared down at his phone, not entirely sure what to do. Scott's number was highlighted, one of half a dozen in the address book. Indecisive, he scrolled up to the number for the vet's clinic, his thumb hovering over the button before he scrolled back down to Scott's. Bad and Worse. Some things never changed.

After a month of exhausting interviews, of recounting details and allowing Valdyr to read his memories (and Jesus, he still couldn't begin to describe how invasive, how difficult the whole process had been) he had a house, or a semblance of one at least. Only as tangible as his claim of having a pack. Meaning, he technically owned a house, and he was technically part of a pack, but his 'home' was a run down, abandoned structure that had once belonged to an alpha's second, and he was part of a pack in the sense that an alpha had accepted him and he had submitted to her.

But it was permanent. More permanent than the loft or Beacon Hills, more permanent than New York. As long as he kept his head down and met the standard requirements, he was staying. Which meant the house he'd just purchased needed to be fixed, because it was his and he was supposed to live in it. He was now a property owner, which implied stability. Maybe.

And he needed to let someone know, because he'd left behind a few loose ends, all of them technically his responsibility. Like Peter, not that he believed his uncle would linger in Beacon Hills. But still, he couldn't shake his sense of obligation, even if it felt like he had burned all of his bridges.

He'd told Scott they were brothers, once. It was never more apparent than now, since he wanted to brain the idealistic moron, preferably with a lacrosse stick. Only a brother could feel that kind of disappointment, right? Only family could feel so utterly betrayed, like- (His brain did not picture anyone in particular. Not long dead sisters or resurrected sisters or uncles that wouldn't stay dead.)

For all that he respected Scott's Rise to alpha, he couldn't respect the clemency the twins enjoyed. Bitterness, nothing new, made it _difficult_ to call the alpha that had taken over his mother's territory. Deaton, likewise, was _difficult_ , because he'd done- Either too much or not enough, depending on the day. His inability or refusal (Derek still didn't know which it had actually been, the statements vague and indecipherable even in hindsight) to help Cora sat wrong in his chest, still pissed him off, the most infuriating moment in months of moments involving the emissary.

Stiles' name was just below Scott's, simultaneously the most and least desirable point of contact.

Stiles was- A constant and a complete unknown. Their last conversation had been all of five sentences, if that, and there hadn't been any goodbyes. The kid had watched him leave though, had waved until they were out of sight, oblivious to the fact that Cora had stared resolutely ahead while he'd watched the boy and the jeep get smaller and smaller. Derek wasn't entirely sure how to let Stiles know how to get in touch with him, or if it would be wise in the first place. A text with his name would be simple, but- (he really hated that word, loathed it because 'but' was in the top three for words that precluded disaster) _But_ , Stiles had done something, unnameable and better left unexamined, by helping him and then telling him he needed to get out, for himself and his sister and not because he wanted him gone. (Even though he probably had.)

Remembering Stiles' suggestions, which would have been funny in any other life (but not this one, because becoming a hermit was a viable and even enlightened suggestion) he looked up at his house. Or what would be a house again. Eventually. He scrolled the his camera app and snapped a quick picture before he could think better of it and sent it, his thumb bearing down on the screen.

**Who is this?**

He smirked down at the phone, then frowned. Maybe vague hadn't been the greatest idea. Vague with no names was threatening, and despite running commentary on his personality, he wasn't wasn't actually aiming for the Overly Theatrical Asshole of the Year award.

**Derek.**

**What is it?**

He felt his head tilt, flicked his gaze to the house and back to his phone. Was it really that bad? He checked the house again. Yeah, yeah it was.

**My new house.**

**I thought no more squatting.**

He scowled at his screen. Either Stiles was being a smartass or genuinely believed he was squatting in a rundown house in the middle of the-God _damn_ it.

The brittle sound of frustration didn't detract from the graphically detailed curses that filled the surrounding woods.

**I'm not. I just closed on it today.**

He sent it, not quite sure why he felt the need to defend the run down thing he'd agreed to buy at Valdyr's insistence. Insistence which was still bewildering and-chaffing, maybe. He'd have to grow used to listening to someone that wasn't his sister. But his new alpha had been adamant, probably because she felt he needed to be kept close. ('On a short leash' his inner voice piped up unhelpfully. That his inner voice sounded like Stiles was pure coincidence.) And he kind of wanted a place to just-Escape. Disappear. Starting over wasn't really an option, but if he had the time, maybe he could buy into the delusion. If anything, that had proven to be one of the few things he was exceptionally good at.

He wasn't bitter, just self aware.

**Congratulations.**

Despite his best intentions, he thought that might be genuine. Or he was already buying into the fantasy.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of all the things for Stiles to emulate, Derek's self preservation skills (and utter lack thereof) had not been on the list of possibilities he'd considered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Codas to Chapter 3
> 
> Trigger warnings: References to medication abuse, self harm, self harm scars, implied attempted suicide, depression, Derek being Derek, Stiles being Stiles, bipolar writing
> 
> All Derek's POV

Derek heard the sound of a car rumbling up the drive, almost lost in the noise of the drill as he worked on the wall frame. Setting it down, he closed his eyes and listened, half expecting the sound of Caroline's sedan. Almost immediately he could tell it wasn't. The clanks and whirs belonged to something older and in need of a tune up.

_Who-_

The scents that began to filter in were vaguely familiar, reminded him of _something_. Chemicals and sweat, the sharp edge of medication softened by sugar, an undertone of ozone holding them all together.

Stiles.

He strode across the bare subflooring, pausing before he got to the door. Stiles was-He was in Oregon. Alone. Any number of things could have happened, but he'd given the teenager his phone number so he could _call_ if there was an emergency. This- This didn't feel like an emergency. Hell if he knew _what_ it felt like.

When he opened the door, Stiles was already out of his jeep, gaze openly assessing the house before falling to him. The grin that split his face failed to completely mask his anxiety.

"Surprise."

Derek knew he was staring, but he couldn't actually think of anything to say. What did you say when someone (a person you never thought you'd see again) dropped in unannounced? The default reaction of slamming the door in his face didn't seem like a viable option when he'd driven several hundred miles. That didn't stop him from considering it, because Stiles was in Oregon. On his property. Something bad had to be following.

Either ignoring his silence or taking it as permission, Stiles grabbed a bag from the back, all easy movement and grace. But he looked-Awful. Like he hadn't been eating or sleeping. Even from a distance Derek could see the belt tightened all the way, bunching the denim waistband hidden beneath two layers of shirts. There was a gauntness to Stiles' face, his cheekbones too sharp in contrast to the face he was still growing into. His eyes were bright, none of his intelligence dulled, but that brightness only made the dark smudges around them all the more pronounced.

"Let me guess, I'm not welcome here?" Stiles said, breaking the silence. He paused at the foot of the cinderblocks Derek had piled into makeshift stairs.

Shaking himself, he stepped to the side, a quiet but unmistakable invitation. "If I didn't want you to know where I lived, you wouldn't have the new number." Which wasn't entirely true. He'd never in a million years expected Stiles to use his number to find him. Or to show up in his driveway. Maybe he should have known better. Stiles had always been an unknown, unpredictable at best. And presumptuous. Derek had forgotten that part. Stiles had never hesitated before inviting himself into Derek's personal space. Whether it was invading his home or touching him, Stiles had carelessly forged ahead, oblivious to the discomfort he'd caused.

Still, he didn't have it in him to send Stiles away. Something was off, his instincts spiking after months of idleness.

"Didn't know you were so handy."

"I'm not," He muttered, trying to figure out why Stiles was there. It couldn't be a social call. Stiles might not hate him, but he certainly didn't like him. They weren't friends.

"But you're learning." Stiles said it like it meant something, and _that_ was the awareness Derek had always admired and been afraid of in equal measures. Because it did mean something. That Stiles saw it so easily, called him on it so blatantly, triggered a defensiveness he'd thought he'd left behind. Apparently he'd been wrong. The teen still brought out the best in him. At least that much hadn't changed.

Stiles though, surprised him by letting it go. That, as much as his appearance, was cause for alarm. Needing a few minutes, if only to gather himself, to find that internal balance integral to dealing with anyone from _there_ , he showed Stiles to the single functional bathroom. The yelp as cold water had hit would have been amusing, before.

But the disparity between his memories and the boy that had driven up in the jeep were too strong, perturbing because he couldn't put his finger on what had changed. Needing to do something, his body jittery with anxious energy, he went back to where he'd been working on the frame, slotting another piece of lumber into place.

When Stiles came back out, he was drying his hair. Derek watched him, waiting for something, any hint to why he'd decided to visit.

"Where's Cora?"

Damn. Maybe he'd been coming to visit her. Maybe he'd had a crush on her, or considered her a friend. Too bad she'd demanded to be dropped off in Montana, her words lingering on a cloud of dust and grit.

_'I'll call when I'm ready to. Just leave me alone, Derek.'_

So far, there had been no hint of communication. Despite knowing that he deserved it, the estrangement was an open wound he struggled to ignore. "Montana, back with her old pack."

Stiles, always more perceptive than he was given credit for, backed off. Another inconsistency. Instead, the teen began asking about the house, sounding genuinely curious. Derek, grateful for something banal and non life threatening to talk about, answered as he continued piecing the frame together. Some things he hedged around (lied blatantly about), like how his property was seated next to Caroline's, or that the alpha's home was a short run through the woods. He admitted to taking classes, though he'd learned more from books. Most of the progress on the house itself was new, he'd only started a month before.

Stiles drank the information in, and Derek felt himself getting desperate because he was running out of things to say. When he'd finished with the frame, he started putting up his tools, wracking his brain for anything, anything at all, to fill the silence. The entire exercise was unnerving, because it had always been Stiles to fill the gaps in with chatter, to talk and talk about things that didn't mean anything at all.

When he'd finished, Stiles shuffled across the subflooring, his feet dragging over the exposed wood. "So what are we doing today?"

It took every ounce of willpower he possessed to pretend that question didn't confuse the hell out of him. Instead, he rolled his eyes and mentioned food. Food, like construction planning, was not a threat to his peace of mind.

On the drive there, Stiles talked about his trip. Derek took the time to observe him, taking stock of the teen's physical condition, which was as bad, if not worse, than first glance hinted at. What was more, Derek couldn't help but notice everything Stiles didn't talk about. As much as he didn't want to know about 'that place', he had expected and braced himself for it. But nothing came. There was absolutely no mention of Scott or the pack, not even the sheriff or Lydia. Nothing. It confused his instincts, made him all the more tense because he'd readied himself to flinch but the blow never landed.

By the time they got to the diner, Derek could only guess as to what had driven Stiles out of state, but at least he understood why he'd come to begin with. Stiles wanted to help him work on the house. Perplexing didn't really cover it. If he had a better idea of what Stiles was running from, he'd know what to brace himself against. Except Stiles was running, and that was probably the one thing he could empathize with.

Assuming he had been part of the problem (always a safe assumption), he didn't understand why Stiles had chosen to come to him of all people. But he had, and given that, he couldn't turn him away. It was one of those loose ends he'd acknowledged but tried not to think about.

So when they sat down, he started going over plans for the house, drawing out diagrams on napkins while Stiles watched, relief etched clearly on his features.

That relief, blatant in it's intensity, reminded him of debts owed. Obviously he'd been an idiot to think he could outrun them.

* * *

The smell of blood hit Derek's nose, cutting through the cloying scent of treated lumber and hot metal. He looked up, saw Stiles' expression growing closed. He barely caught what the teen muttered over the sound of his heartbeat thundering in his chest. The tripping beat wasn't from a lie, but a consistent arrhythmia that Derek had considered normal, remembered from their time destroying his ancestral home.

Stiles thundered up the stairs. Derek was almost willing to let it go, because accidents happened during construction. It couldn't be that bad. Except the scent only got stronger, flavoring the air with copper. The taste of dirty pennies filled his mouth, triggering a dozen memories that filled the air with putrid rot and ash.

He was up the stairs and in the room before he realized what he was doing, his instincts screaming _fightfightfight_.

Except there was no enemy. Just Stiles, his shirt over his head.

Just Stiles bleeding, his side a mess of scar tissue, a bandage half hanging from his side. Stiles pulling his shirt back down to cover the evidence, flinching back as a snarl rolled and echoed past the unfinished skeleton frames of rooms, filling the entire upstairs with a quiet, vibrating rumble.

"Explain." He had to clench his teeth together, because something was swelling up in him, dark and cold. Impotent fury was strangling his lungs, horror following in the wake of an awful clarity. Stiles' 'insomnia', how he shook pills into his hands with practiced carelessness, the chemicals that tainted his sweat, the ever present sting of rubbing alcohol that wafted off of his skin. His stuttering, unsteady heartbeat.

Two weeks, he'd worked side by side with him. Two weeks and he hadn't even _noticed_ -

"I don't like to sleep." Stiles said it like it explained everything. Except it didn't. Nothing could explain the myriad lines covering his ribs, pink and raised. Derek didn't think there was anything that could justify the utter disregard Stiles had for his body, for the effects of the stimulants he was abusing. 'I don't like to sleep.' He understood and at the same time balked at the absurdity of the excuse, caught in comprehension.

Stiles matched his fear, his anger, more than. A flurry of words spilled out, hateful and sharp. Derek felt himself shrinking back from the onslaught of rage, wondered how he'd managed to miss it because no one should be able to hide something so _immense_ , especially not someone who had always been so easy to read. Memories burst like snaps of lightning, faces to match the loneliness and desperation Stiles thoughtlessly exposed. In a matter of seconds Derek felt open and raw, as fragile as Stiles looked.

"Not everyone got to haul ass out of town once it was over. Some people are fucking stuck with the reminders smiling at them every day. So fuck you, Derek, I'm dealing with it."

The accusation hung in the air. Derek had gotten out, Derek had left him. And maybe-Jesus, maybe he was right. Maybe if he'd just paid attention months ago, when they'd still been breaking down walls and discussing explosives, Stiles wouldn't look like he'd just walked out of a hunter's basement.

Self recrimination pushed at him, made it impossible to bear that gaze. He turned on his heel and fled. And it was fleeing, even ashamed of it, he was willing to admit that. There was no way looking at him, smelling the blood and chemical sweat would help anything.

He was still reeling, unsure what it was he was actually feeling, when he heard Stiles stomping outside, out to his jeep.

He'd fucked up, and Stiles-Stiles' problems were his problems. However unintentionally, the scars lining Stiles' ribs were his fault. With that thought, and only that thought in mind, he stalked outside, unintelligible sounds escaping as he tried to tell him to stop and failed. Stiles' bags were over his shoulders, his intent obvious.

When he crowded Stiles back against the jeep, the stench of what he recognized as too much adderall and blood making him want to retch, he said the first thing that came to mind.

"You're not leaving." Shit.

"Yes, I am."

"And what, go back to that?" Of all the things for Stiles to emulate, Derek's self preservation skills (and utter lack thereof) had not been on the list of possibilities he'd considered.

"What else am I going to Derek? Stay here and hug it out with you?"

Oh god, he was so completely out of his depth. That suggestion alone was enough to tempt him to step back, to let Stiles go. There was no one in the world more unqualified to help him. Derek had already screwed up three teenagers and gotten two murdered in the process. But- (Top three, he knew it. A disaster every time.) _But_.

Stiles had left the state and come to him, and he'd had as much of a hand in creating the problem as Scott had. This was his fault, and for all that he had no clue what the hell he should do, he knew if Stiles continued he'd end up killing himself. Even now the idea of Stiles driving for eight hours, obviously exhausted and possibly, probably _high_ , made him question how Stiles had made it to Portland in the first place.

He yanked the keys from Stiles' hands. Stiles hissed his name, his fist clenching like he was getting ready to punch him. Derek ignored it and grabbed the bags next, stalking back inside the house. Stiles was still outside when he opened the one that smelled like alcohol.

The bottle of whiskey-Jesus, he knew Stiles had worried about his dad's drinking, remembered half grumbled complaints about hiding the bottle when he got home, if he got home. It hadn't been a guarantee at the time.

The bottle hit the unfinished wall across from him. The sound of glass shattering and liquid spraying the floor echoed through the house, hitting the bare walls and crashing back down. The scent of whiskey was already soaking into the wood, turning his stomach.

Stiles was yelling at him, the words lost in the cloud of rage blocking everything else out. The adderall bottles went into his pocket with the keys. When he found the kit, he tasted blood in his mouth. A kit implied ritual. Suddenly he hated _everything_ , incoherent as he bent the knife and threw the bottle at the wall.

Stiles was still babbling when he dragged the bags upstairs to his room. Stiles flailed and shouted, disjointed promises and accusations hitting the air and breaking into fragments Derek could barely understand. He went and grabbed the sleeping bag Stiles had been using (though apparently, not nearly enough) and dragged it back to what would eventually be the master bedroom.

"What, am I on suicide watch?" Stiles demanded sarcastically, voice hoarse from shouting.

"If that's what it takes," He bit out. It wasn't until Stiles said it that he realized that was exactly what he was doing.

"You-Fuck you, Derek. I'm not your responsibility, let me go home."

Derek turned, because it was tempting. The more he thought about it, the more he wanted to do it, to shove Stiles away and let him handle it on his own. Except he knew nothing would change, because if Stiles had lost his faith in Scott- It had to be complete. Stiles had been in Scott's corner from the beginning, and for all the quips and insults, he'd trusted him. If that faith had broken, Derek couldn't, wouldn't expect help.

He reached into his pocket and held out his phone. "I'll let you go right now if you call your father and tell him what you've been doing."

The fist didn't hurt. Derek was a werewolf, and Stiles was human. The flash of sensation was gone as soon as it registered. Stiles, however, was cradling his hand. He'd probably have bruised knuckles to show for his efforts.

The teen mouthed off sarcastically before falling into a quiet sulk. Derek kept his focus on him, unsure where to go now that they'd started. Now that he'd started. ( _What the hell did he think he was doing?_ )

When the sky began to change, deepening into twilight, he felt the air pressure shift, the taste of rain already beginning to blow in past the tarps over the windows. He got up, waiting a moment. When Stiles showed no signs of moving, he didn't push. Some distance would give him time to think without being immersed in suppressed resentment and pungent chemicals. The reprieve itself was too tempting to pass up.

It wasn't until he was halfway to the diner that he pulled over, the reality of what he was doing breaking through the fog of anger and fear. The truck door was barely open before he was leaning out, one hand on his stomach as it seized, the other keeping him from falling out of his seat. The scar tissue strewn over Stiles' ribs wouldn't fade, the image as persistent as the smell of alcohol and amphetamines.

Stiles had been quietly self destructing. Derek knew, even if he hadn't been mentioned in the tirade, that none of it, nothing, could have happened without his participation. He'd had as much of a hand in it as Scott had, if not more. Stiles had told him to leave, and maybe it had been something else. Maybe-Maybe Stiles had been wanting someone to notice, and he hadn't. Everything had been right under his nose for two weeks and he still hadn't seen.

He continued retching long after his stomach was empty. Only when he was completely exhausted, his muscles trembling and his entire body sore, and he was sure there was nothing left, did he finally pull himself upright and take the small comfort of leaning against his seat.

Laura's memory came out of the dark place he normally kept it hidden. Once, when they'd still been new to New York and completely alone, she'd saved him from himself. The parallels were impossible to ignore, despite the differences. (He hadn't deserved saving, Stiles did.) Laura-Somehow she'd managed to keep him from self-immolating, even though he'd fought her every step of the way. She'd kept him alive.

She'd been better than him though, even coping with the unfamiliar power that had come to her and bearing the weight of her own grief. Laura had been a good alpha, even if her pack had been nothing but a guilt riddled child and a comatose uncle. Despite how strong she'd been, she'd almost failed. How could he hope to do what she'd barely managed?

For the first time since he'd left Beacon Hills, so sure that the past was behind him, he felt salt burning his eyes. Guilt rose up, bore down, boxed him in until there was nothing but Stiles' accusation ringing in his ears.

(Later, when he threw Stiles over his shoulder, he accepted that he wasn't his sister, would never be her. But they'd hit rock bottom. If he couldn't pull Stiles out of it-Derek admitted that at the very least he deserved to be there with him.)

* * *

He felt her coming up the drive before he heard the sound of her car. Setting the panel against bare studs, he tugged his gloves off and listened to the sounds upstairs. Stiles was still working, cursing occasionally as he struggled with something.

When he walked outside, Caroline was getting out, dressed casually. She looked relaxed, but he could see her taking note of the jeep parked next to his truck, of the sounds coming from behind the tarps that covered where the windows would hang, if he could make it that long without giving in to temptation and blowing up a second house.

"You weren't there last night." There was no greeting. Of course, no greeting was needed when they both knew she'd come to reprimand him. As a new beta still integrating into the pack, he was supposed to come to every full moon gathering on her land. That had been one of the (surprisingly) few rules she'd set down after accepting him.

"I have a guest," He explained, trying to keep his posture submissive and the growl out of his tone. Caroline was a good alpha, a good leader. But he still felt the itch to snap back, felt the need to snarl now that her gaze was looking beyond him and at the house where Stiles moved like a one man stampede, completely ignorant and indifferent to the noise he made.

"I see. Human?"

He nodded. It was obvious anyway.

"Does he know?"

He nodded again, the movement almost forced out of him. There was no point in lying, but Stiles was- Something. He didn't know what, and he didn't know the right words to explain it to Caroline, not without giving away secrets that weren't his to tell.

"Derek, please explain this to me," She commanded, voice gentling, almost as if in deference to his defensiveness.

"He's from Beacon Hills," Derek admitted slowly, the name of the town thick and caustic on his tongue. "He's not-He needed to get away from it for awhile."

Caroline sighed. "I'm not going to hurt him Derek. But if he knows, I need to know about him. You know I do, otherwise I would leave it alone. Now please, just tell me what's going on."

Derek looked back at the house. He knew Stiles was still working upstairs, knew he couldn't possibly hear them speaking, probably wasn't even aware of Caroline's presence. But it felt wrong, somehow, talking about him to someone else, even Caroline. Maybe especially to her.

"He's the sheriff's son, Stiles. The one that kept helping. He's having problems with-" He searched for a word, ignored the ugly ones like 'trauma', 'alienation', and 'addiction'. He definitely veered away from 'everything', even though it was probably the most accurate. "Handling things, now that it's over. He just needed to get away from it and came here."

Caroline's considering gaze moved from him back to the house, zeroing in on the room Stiles was in. Derek could hear him cursing, the string of profanities as colorful as they were nonsensical.

"He smells like amphetamines."

"He takes adderall for his adhd." The twice daily doses weren't enough to explain the amount of chemicals Stiles' body was still sweating out, but the last thing he needed was for Caroline to think Stiles was a junkie.

"Which is in your pocket," She pointed out, lips thinning into a frown. Derek bit the inside of his cheek, forced the demand for her to leave Stiles alone down his throat.

"He needs help," He finally said, keeping his voice even. "And he won't get it there." And that was a bitter pill to swallow. A True Alpha walked the territory of Beacon Hills, his mother's territory, in step with murderers and psychopaths. And Stiles was-Christ. Stiles was literally sinking into himself, all sharp angles and defensive walls, trying to hide himself from the worst of it and failing.

He heard Stiles coming downstairs, prayed he stayed inside. But like every other prayer in his life, the answer was no. After a brief pause at the door, Stiles was stalking towards them, face twisted in a mask of anger. And-

Stiles was standing between him and his alpha, hand fisted around the vial of liquid wolfsbane hanging from his neck, obviously ready to use it. Derek was trying to choke down his panic as he moved forward, saw Caroline's eyes glow red with command and stopped, but didn't step back.

"Stiles, no," He tried, hoping that for once the human would listen to him. It was futile, he knew that, but futile hopes were something he was used to.

"I don't know who the fuck you are, but you don't get to snap and snarl at Derek," Stiles threatened, the lines of his body radiating fury. Derek stared, felt shock lacing cold through his veins as Stiles stood his ground, refused to back down when Caroline's eyes only seemed to glow brighter, her teeth visibly lengthening behind her lips. He was acting like some sort of shield, and Derek didn't understand why. All week they'd been short with eachother, all week Stiles had snapped and glared and screamed at him, venting desperation fueled rage at him.

And he was trying to protect him.

"Oh?"

Derek started praying. Maybe, if he was lucky, he'd be able to push Stiles to the side and take the blow that had to be coming. His claws had already long and sharp, the bones in his jaw were cracking in anticipation of the shift.

"Yeah, _oh_. So how about you piss off and go bug some other werewolf?"

Derek tensed, readied himself.

Caroline's eyes shifted back to human blue and she began to laugh.

"You're Stiles," She acknowledged, meeting Stiles' stare head on.

Derek felt his world tilt and spin with the staggering realization that maybe he wasn't about to die after all.

"How do you know my name?" Stiles demanded, obviously thrown by the alpha's laughter.

"She's my alpha," He snapped. "Go back inside." _Please_ , he thought, _please_ _go back inside. Please stop being so stupid, so_ you _, for two seconds and listen._

"Dude, no, she was looming over you. Is that alpha lesson one or something? Because it's bullshit, you don't intimidate the people you lead."

Derek tried not to flinch at the dig there. He knew, logically, Stiles wasn't trying to aim a barb at him, but it struck home nonetheless. Caroline's gaze focused on him and he felt his words freeze in his throat before she looked back at Stiles.

"I wasn't intimidating him," She said, voice growing serious and amusement fading.

"Caroline was offering me help with something," He lied, voice stiff. No need for Stiles to know that Caroline had come to reprimand him for missing the gathering, or that she was trying to pull information out of him.

"The intimidation you saw was nothing more than Derek's reticence to speak. Now, if you're satisfied?" Caroline asked.

Derek nodded when Stiles turned to him, a silent plea for him to go back inside before he managed to actually piss Caroline off. Stiles nodded in return and cast one last, hard look at Caroline before walking back inside.

"I want you to be completely honest with me Derek," Caroline commanded a moment later, the reverberations of an alpha's growl echoing beneath her words. "He's borderline emaciated and chemicals are pouring off of him. It also appears that he hasn't slept in days. He's in rough shape, and that's putting it kindly. Are you detoxing him?"

Derek nodded, teeth grinding against eachother.

"Why was he abusing his medication?"

"He doesn't want to sleep. He has nightmares about everything that happened."

"How often?"

"Every night."

Caroline hummed thoughtfully. "I'm not surprised that he's having problems. What _does_ bother me is why he's here, when there is a pack in Beacon Hills. From what I'd gathered, he was very close to the alpha." From the memories she'd read, he thought bitterly. Stiles was, or had been, Scott's best friend. Past tense.

"The pack is part of the problem," He bit out, then wished he could suck the words back in, out of the air where they hung, an open invitation into things that weren't his to offer. But Caroline only looked thoughtful and didn't press. When she spoke again, her expression was grim.

"Stiles' condition reflects very poorly on the alpha. That he felt it was necessary to leave his home to find a sense of security implies a great deal."

Derek refused to say anything about Scott, although lately he'd had more than his fair share of revenge fantasies, a coping mechanism he'd developed listening to Stiles whimper and thrash in his sleep.

"I understand why you have problems trusting, Derek. Given what you've told me, I would question your intelligence if you did trust easily. You've both been through one ordeal after another, and you're both trying to pull through it. If you have one another for support, so much the better. I'd like to help, if you'll let me."

Derek was more surprised that Caroline was asking him than he was by the offer of help. And he did need help. Stiles' nightmares only seemed to be getting worse, and even though he knew that part of it could be due to the withdrawals as his body adjusted to the changes it was being forced through, he wasn't sure how much more either of them could take. Each night brought memories into clearer focus, Stiles' restless murmurs only sharpening the edges of what lurked beneath his skin.

(Every time Boyd's name was whispered he could still feel his blood quickening in response. No need to tell Stiles he'd tried to bleed the beta's power out more than once. He already knew he was a hypocrite. Better for Stiles that he didn't.)

It took him a moment to come back to himself, to remember all of the good things he'd heard about the Valdyr pack, that Caroline was a fair alpha, a good alpha. It was why he'd sought her out. Slowly, cautiously, he nodded.

"Diner food isn't good for either of you, but especially for him right now. I'll have Rick bring food by this evening, and for dinner from now on. Hopefully Stiles will begin to gain back some weight and muscle."

"Thank you," He murmured, allowing himself to breathe, to relax a fraction. Food. She was starting with food, and not-Not taking Stiles away, not trying to send him back to that place.

"And Derek?" Caroline asked, already walking for her car.

"Yes?" He almost said ma'am and stopped himself, reminded too much of his mother suddenly.

"Stiles wasn't afraid of me at all. When he was staring me down his heartbeat steadied. Given his understanding of alphas, it says a great deal about his convictions. Very impressive, if I'm to be honest. He cares about you, and he obviously trusts you to help him through this. With good reason, considering you were ready to attack me to protect him," She added with a smile that was far too canine for his liking.

Derek wasn't sure what to say to that, because he was still having problems processing Stiles' behavior at all, much less reading into it. And as for his own-Stiles was his responsibility, one of the many things he'd broken in his clumsy attempts at being an alpha.

"You told me you had no one. I'd say you were wrong."

Caroline slid gracefully into her car and drove off, that vague statement hanging in the air. And it bothered the hell out of him, because the concept of 'having someone', especially someone from Beacon Hills, flew in the face of all reason. No one, especially Stiles, had any reason to trust him.

But Stiles had come to his defense.

And that was the bitch of it all. Because Stiles sneered, yelled, and his tantrum the day before could be politely referred to as 'unsettling'. But he hadn't left, hadn't tried to leave since the first night, hadn't tried to steal his car keys or to use the phone Derek left in plain view at all times.

And he had stood between Derek and a perceived threat, hadn't backed down until he'd gotten the assurance that it was alright.

Derek itched at his scalp, felt the sawdust in his hair shifting.

He'd hesitate before ever calling it trust. But they'd pulled eachother out of the fire before, established something, even if they always seemed to backslide and undermine what they had earned. Hopefully he could pull Stiles out before he managed to destroy what little was left.

* * *

When he woke up to the sound of Stiles cheering, it took a second to remember when, more importantly how, he'd crossed the room from his sleeping bag to Stiles' nest of blankets. That, however, was lost in the almost physical sensation of Stiles' exhilaration. The air was warm, and Stiles gleefully, almost manically pulled aside the tarp covering the window. He instinctively clenched his eyelids shut as light flooded the room. He felt the goddamn sunbeam (it was cheerful, he could just tell) falling across his face.

The sun was already up, well into the day if it's position was anything to go by.

"Dude, it's eight!" Stiles crowed, sounding much too excited about the time.

Derek blinked, feeling-Rested. Maybe even a little bit sane. Eight. They'd slept six hours, and Stiles hadn't had a nightmare. More than that, Stiles had pulled him out of his own and then dragged him over to the sleep thorn.

The smile quirked one corner of his lips before he could stop it. Stiles didn't notice, already scrambling through his bags and pulling out clean clothes. It wasn't-It was one night. But it was a change.

* * *

In a rare fit of optimism, Derek allowed himself to relax as he watched Stiles. For the first time in over a month, the teenager was completely at ease, a grin stretching his features. The mead he'd been drinking gave him a healthy flush, highlighting the weight he'd gained and the freckles that had begun dotting his face.

It was new and strange, almost overwhelming, standing in the middle of the happy chaos instead of lingering on the fringes like he normally did. Stiles made it impossible to drift away, kept him firmly rooted in the center where people moved and laughed together, called out greetings like they were seeing one another for the first time in years. It would be uncomfortably Stepford County, except he remembered it being the same in New York, once the Blackwell pack had granted Laura Haven.

He'd never envied those caught up in the motions, hadn't realized how potent the sense of belonging could be. Even though he barely knew anyone, couldn't even remember the names of all the faces talking to him, it was easy. Easy to talk about the progress on his house, to smile at people and politely refuse offers of an actual bed and warm showers, to introduce Stiles as a friend. It didn't feel forced or awkward, he didn't feel like a bad actor trying to make himself small and inconspicuous. Stiles cheer was infectious, difficult not to catch, if only because it was so novel. Not even in Beacon Hills had he been so unguardedly happy.

No one knew them as they had been. That made it easy too.

Not easy, but simple, maybe, to lower his guard and ignore the voice in his head that said all good things had a price, that eventually, the other shoe would drop. Because Stiles was laughing and joking, allowing touch and returning it with the kind of familiarity that flew in the face of his experiences. Stiles looked, Christ, he _felt_ like he belonged. Everything flowed like it was a natural progression, the two of them finally experiencing what it should have always been like. Safe and safeguarded from the world, from the harsh realities of people that hunted them, hurt and used them. Welcomed, like they had never been strangers. Scents bled together, people embracing and touching until individuals smelled less like themselves and increasingly like the amalgamation of something bigger. Even now he could feel others brushing up against him, marking him as one of them. They were more cautious of Stiles, but even so, shaking hands and clapping shoulders, even accidental nudges were making it impossible to tell he was only a guest.

It was Pack in a way that echoed the past, reminded him of his family. In the center of the merriment, the memory lost it's hard edge, was softened by the chatter. The scent of food and people and joy overwhelmed the phantom taste of ash. If only for tonight, he was going to allow himself that fantasy, to believe that he was doing something right.

When the moon reached it's zenith, his whole body thrummed in time with the pull all of the wolves felt. His control was too good to give away the restlessness that moved through him, made his body ache to shift, to run and stretch his jaws wide. Stiles was watching the shifting betas without anxiety, his entire body relaxed as people began to bolt into the forest, an army of shadows that moved between shapes, their laughter trailing behind them.

Intoxicated by the moon, by the sensation of safety, by Stiles' laughter rolling over him, by the scents and sounds, he squeezed Stiles' shoulder in question and was gifted with a breathless, encouraging grin. Trusting that smile, he bolted into the woods, the shift snapping through his body as he ran.

The night was new, felt like being welcomed home as he slipped from humanity and into wolf, left behind the concerns that only humans could have. Time blurred, ran through his fingers like sand. The heady sense of freedom was a drug, his blood flooded with andrenaline. He pushed himself to go faster, to let his instincts carry him over obstacles and past other wolves. Howls tore through the air, poured into the forest and filled it until there was nothing but the sound of pack, exultant. His voice wasn't lost in the multitude, instead it was folded in, distinct but harmonious. One followed the next, the sound undulating from inside his throat. It wasn't a call to arms, wasn't the result of pain or rage, didn't mourn or warn anyone away. He'd almost forgotten that the sound could be acknowledgment, as unweighted as breathing. He simply was, his past and future waiting somewhere beyond the treeline.

When he followed the others back to the barn, he found Stiles curled up in the loft, half buried in hay. A red haired wolf was draped over his legs, dead to the world, the both of them soft and easy in sleep. It was almost unnervingly natural, how he slipped in next to Stiles, arranging himself to that his feet slipped under the sleeping beta. Stiles snuffled, shifted closer to him, a hand moving to fist his shirt before he settled again.

(Derek was lulled to sleep by the scent of Stiles and honey and hay, the combination new and yet achingly familiar.)

–

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The full moon coda is intentionally incoherent. I like to think that while Derek has awesome control, things are a little less human and more instinctive during a full moon. Also, sap and fluff because it's been over a month since he started trying to help Stiles, and I imagine he'd be inordinately pleased with the results.  
> (plus I cannot survive on angst alone, despite all evidence to the contrary)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I saw Stiles." Because pleasantries were reserved for pleasant conversations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coda for chapter 4
> 
> Triggers: References to self harm, exhaustion, blink and miss it Kate reference

He'd been someone's secret before. It wasn't a new sensation, exactly. But it felt-It felt worse now, somehow. Facing down Scott's door, knowing, and really, it was the _knowing_ that made it all so much worse. Because unlike before, he knew the consequences, knew that the choices were simply 'bad' and 'worse', knew and couldn't do much of anything. (It grated, because now that he was actually trying, he kept hitting brick walls.)

Maybe, if he was a better person, a stronger person, he would go to the sheriff. Except-

He'd be lying to himself if he didn't admit that a part of him was as angry at the sheriff as he was at Scott. The sheriff was not a stupid man. It had taken all of five minutes for him to find Derek and apologize, after they'd found Kate Argent's body. Apologize, like making him the town pariah could be fixed with a few words and a sincere enough expression. But he was perceptive (Stiles had gotten it from somewhere, and it certainly hadn't been _Scott_ ), and he should have been able to see what Stiles was going through. Only the willfully blind could miss it.

The healthy flush that Stiles had gained at the end of summer was already gone, lost in smudges of blue and purple, on the sharp edges of cheekbones. Stiles had lost his babyfat, but he still looked young, someone old and tired lost in a teenager's body. He was caving in on himself, gaunt and sunken over the slender ropes of muscle he'd gained only months before. Even his awareness had dimmed, dulled by exhaustion and fear. Derek thought about how Stiles had sought him out, trusted him to guard him while he slept, like somehow that would keep him safe from everything. Despite the events of the summer, it shouldn't have been Stiles' first instinct to trust _him_ to keep him safe. That he was back at that point spoke volumes.

It was a fucking miracle he hadn't relapsed or died.

When he finally knocked, he knew Scott was already on the other side of the door, waiting. Maybe it was courtesy, the illusion of allowing Derek time, maybe to collect himself, or gather his courage. If the kid had any sense at all, he'd be able to feel the barely restrained fury making his fist strike the wood that touch too hard.

"Derek," Scott greeted, opening the door and stepping to the side. An invitation into his home. He looked- Expectant. Maybe even a little happy, like he thought Derek showing up on his doorstep didn't herald bad news.

Moron.

He stood his ground, ignored that Scott had gotten taller, a little broader. Power radiated just beneath his skin, easy for anyone with eyes to see.

"I saw Stiles." Because pleasantries were reserved for pleasant conversations.

The tension those words evoked was nothing short of spectacular. Red eyes flashed, not in warning, but from a lack of control. Anger, temper. Frustration. Derek was sure if he looked, Scott's nails would be claws, tapered to points and buried in the doorframe. Derek made a visible effort of not shifting, even though his instincts were telling him the conversation was going to erupt in bloodshed. Scott's control was tenuous, and Derek knew he was provoking it by calling the alpha out.

"He's not doing well." It was like he _wanted_ Scott to hit him.

"It's not your problem." The hell it wasn't. "Stiles is just-" Scott stopped, because apparently he didn't have a word for what Stiles was anymore. At least, not one he was willing to divulge. Derek belonged to another alpha, that much was obvious. He wasn't pack. And despite whatever Scott was feeling about Stiles, he wasn't going to admit anything more to an outsider, not concerning a potential weakness.

Bitterly, Derek wondered why Scott was bothering to protect Stiles now, when, by all accounts, he'd been determinedly, _willfully_ unaware of his best friend's deterioration.

"Stiles' heartbeat is consistently irregular and he's not taking care of himself." _Like you should be, like you are for everyone but him._ His inner voice was sounded suspiciously like Peter, the sneer self evident. It took work to keep the irate edges from leaking into his actual words. "So when I say he's not doing well, what I mean is that his body is close to failing and shutting down. You know, dying."

That got Scott's attention. Derek held the steady, worried gaze, pinned Scott down because while Scott had been an obnoxiously defiant beta, now he unconsciously, maybe even instinctively commanded submission, and Derek was damned if he was going to pretend a deference he didn't feel. Their positions were reversed, every part of him rejecting Scott's status. While the irony wasn't lost on him, he refused to cede. In any other situation, an alpha would read it as a challenge, maybe even a claim. It was just his good luck that Scott was as ignorant of wolf law as he was of everything else.

"Whatever's going on, he's not handling it well. He'll end up in the hospital soon, or worse, if something doesn't change."

He didn't wait for an answer. Like every time before, he'd delivered the bad news, and now it was time to go. There were other, more important things to worry about, more important than Scott slamming the door hard enough to make the windows shake, or how he was shouting at someone inside the house. Things like calling Rick and explaining the situation, getting more sleep thorns, Christ, getting the hell out of town before he decided throwing Stiles in the back of his truck, willing or not, was in his best interest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imagine Derek asking Peter why he bit Scott. The answers vary wildly.
> 
> 'I didn't know he had daddy issues.'  
> 'He was the slow one.'  
> 'It was dark.'  
> 'I _was _clinically insane.'__
> 
>  
> 
> _  
> _I still feel for Scott though, I really do.__  
> 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sense of deja vu hit, the past threatening to overtake the present. Missing. Dead. Hurt. Wrecked. Vivisected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coda to chapter 6
> 
> Triggers: Panic attacks, emotional instability, abuse, non-consensual touching, Kate and Jennifer fallout, mentions of past character death, depression, canon typical violence, vomiting
> 
> Prewarning: This is probably going to read as an excuse for Derek's behavior. That's not my intention. An explanation, yes. But not an excuse.

He'd been allowed to forget, the year before. He'd worked straight through it, completely unaware of the day, of the week, even. It hadn't hit until he'd been reminded of the full moon that Laura's birthday had come and gone.

But now he worked, had a schedule. Now he was painfully aware of the days.

He heard Stiles muttering under his breath, one colorful invective after another, words jumble on the surface of his mind as he crossed his arms, tried to shield himself from the sensation of fingers trailing across his shoulders. He watched him pull out of the driveway, fist raised and middle finger waving angrily as the jeep disappeared, a metaphorical cloud lingering behind.

Derek knew he'd messed up, that he was completely at fault. The days had passed, the tension beneath his skin coiling more and more until he was on the verge of breaking, exhausted from maintaining the pretense that he was fine. And it was his fault, he knew. He should have said something, at the very least, he should have told him to go stay with Cassie. Stiles had only responded to his shitty attitude, and it had escalated, both of them feeding off of one another until it had gotten completely out of control, become a virulent stain that colored every interaction.

Despite knowing he was to blame, his skin crawled at the memory of Stiles touching him. It had been nothing more than Stiles trying to get past him, to nudge him out of the way. But something in him had recoiled, viciously bursting out like bomb going off. He hadn't even realized he'd shoved Stiles away, thrown him against the workbench until the angry shouting had started, barely noticeable as a phantom touch had slipped over his arm, down to his stomach. The sensation had only gotten worse, more real to him than the sound of Stiles' voice. Each breath fed them, made them more insistent.

Nausea roiled in his stomach, and it was only because he was already outside that it was so easy to lurch two steps away from the structure and empty the contents of his stomach onto the ground. Shadow hands moved over his skin, refused to let him be, worse than the stench filling his nostrils and the acid in his throat. His eyes burned and his lungs wouldn't expand, wouldn't draw in enough air. The hands continued tracing patterns on his flesh, a mockery of tenderness. The more he tried to ignore them, the worse it got until he was whimpering, unable to move forward or back, to slip out of their reach.

Laura wasn't there to pull him out, Laura would never save him again. She'd died because of him, and now he was stuck, the caresses strangling him. _His fault._ It was worse than he remembered, cold trailing in the wake of each stroke, sinking below his skin and into his bones. _LauraLauraLaura_ The world dimmed to that certainty, that he was trapped, that he'd never be free, the ghoulish fingers fondling and reaching into his chest and tearing through his lungs, sliding up to grip his throat tight-

When he came to, he had vomit in his hair and his entire body hurt, every muscle protesting movement. It felt like he'd endured days of electrocution, every joint locked and immobile. It took him three tries to get to his knees, another two to get to his feet, every movement graceless and painful. The scent of sickness clung to him, made his stomach heave. The walk to the house took an eternity, sensation slowly returning to his limbs.

When he walked back inside the house, the shed (a pathetic attempt at working through the month, to forget again) ignored, he was hit by Stiles' scent. Even though he'd only been there a few days, it had pulled the fading scents back out, emphasized what had been dulled by time and absence.

It was easier to focus on the mephetis of dirt and sick. It was motivation to climb the stairs and strip, to crawl into the shower and scrub himself raw, as if he could banish the gruesome memory of touch. His skin turned pink, healed, and turned pink again under his ministrations, the pain slowly bringing him back to himself.

He stayed under the water long after he'd stopped scrubbing, after the spray had turned cold. Exhaustion dulled his senses, made the simple act of turning off the water a chore. He stumbled out, dripping water as he went.

Awareness returned in increments, guilt replacing anger in a pattern too familiar to resist. Despite the shame, it was something he knew, and knowing it so intimately, he at least knew what to do. Searching for his pants, he finally found them and pulled his phone free of the pocket. Worry settled in next to the guilt, made him ignore the voice in his head that told him to pretend, to let it go. Life would be so much simpler if there was no one to hurt.

He tapped out a message to Cassie, asking her if Stiles had gotten to her house alright. He probably had no right to ask, but the last time he'd ignored the need for confirmation, Laura had broken her promise to call him.

His bed was blessedly free of any trace of Stiles, only his scent steeped in the sheets. He was on the verge of sleep when his phone started ringing. Cassie's name flashed on the screen, a herald of what would doubtlessly be a first class tirade. Even knowing what to expect, he answered, needed that confirmation, no matter how it was delivered.

"Cassie," He mumbled, face half buried in his pillow.

"Derek, Stiles isn't here."

A quick glance at his phone showed that he'd been in bed for over an hour. The sense of deja vu hit, the past threatening to overtake the present. Missing. Dead. Hurt. Wrecked. Vivisected.

"Derek," Cassie prompted. "Is everything alright?"

"No," He whimpered, panic shredding his lungs. "Stiles and I-" Breathing was painful."He left a few hours ago." Laura's voice echoed in his ear.

_I'll be fine._

"Do you think he went home?"

He hadn't even considered that. Relief was abrupt and dizzying, light flooding his vision and making his head hurt. His head throbbed, the realization killing his relief as quickly as it had come. Stiles had gone back to Beacon Hills.

He'd driven him out of the state entirely.

"He-I messed up," He muttered, self loathing dripping from each word. "Cassie, he's going to need someone."

"What did you do, Derek?" She snarled. He didn't hear Laura. She wasn't-It wasn't her.

"I screwed up," He repeated, not sure who he was talking to anymore. "It's my fault. He-" Derek shook his head, felt guilt needling through him. Fuck. Laura's voice echoed out of the darkness, muffling Cassie's.

_Jesus, Derek you broke her arm!_

Woodenly, he gave her directions to Beacon Hills, ignoring the demands for an explanation. Half gone in memories of Laura driving away, gone for days without calling, he tried Stiles' cell. When it went to voicemail he threw it against a wall, the sound of breaking plastic not nearly enough to give the whispers pause.

Laura's voice reached out of the dark, circling and caging him in the memory of her voice.

_Who did this to you?_

Him. He'd done it. It was his fault. It was always, _always_ his fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canonically, werewolves can have panic attacks. They are also prone to violence. Derek is (additionally) emotionally unstable due to trauma. This seems like an incredibly bad combination. 
> 
> That being said, it doesn't actually excuse abuse, and he recognizes that. In TAoFaN, he doesn't tell Stiles everything because he doesn't want to make an excuse. Also, vulnerability/perceptions of weakness are a huge issue for him, and admitting to panic attacks/flashbacks would probably never occur to him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blood did not go on presents, especially when a child could actually smell it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coda to chapter 9
> 
> Derek's not particularly thrilled about Stiles going back to Beacon Hills.

"If you keep doing this, I swear to god I will stab you with one of your files," Cassie snapped.

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her if she didn't like it, she needed to get the hell out of his workshop. However, the first time he'd done it, still riding the unpleasant memory of watching Stiles pull away in the train, she'd almost cried. That he'd immediately felt like an asshole went without saying. The subsequent trip to the diner to watch her eat a whole pie (pecan, Stiles' favorite) had probably been a little over the top, but he wasn't going to say anything one way or another. It would probably result in actual blood and tears, and he was working on a seven year old's stocking stuffer. Blood did not go on presents, especially when a child could actually smell it.

It was just-Odd, knowing someone felt the same way he did. That someone missed Stiles' presence as much as he did, that someone was as worried as he was. If it had been anyone else, he probably would have brushed them off, but Cassie was genuine, artless to a fault. She didn't have it in her to fake worry just to appear sympathetic. And besides, as odd as it was, it was almost relieving to have someone else to calm down, forcing him to ground his own apprehension.

Stiles had been with them for months, a daily presence. Months of constant contact, of scent and absentminded affection. After practically living in eachother's pockets, Stiles' absence was a disruption that left them both listing and anxious.

That it was Beacon Hills, with the McCall pack, didn't help. Cassie knew some, enough at least, to keep her in a near constant state of worry. Despite his best intentions, his own restlessness seeped out, amplifying Cassie's black mood. But he knew, intimately, how bad that place was for Stiles. Hundreds of scenarios played out, each one worse than the last. That Stiles' wasn't pack, hadn't submitted, just meant that whatever happened, Stiles was effectively cut off and they wouldn't know anything until it was too late.

And he couldn't go there to protect him. Neither could Cassie. Caroline had given an official order to remain within the territory, not that he'd been thinking of making the drive down there. (Cassie probably had though, and he'd have probably gone with her, given the excuse.)

"He's going to be fine," He repeated, not for the first time that day. Now if only he could will himself to believe that.

"I know," Cassie muttered, sullen. "I just-I don't trust them."

Derek only just kept himself from nodding in agreement. It wouldn't help anything. "It's just for Christmas. He'll be back before New Year's."

He was able to work in relative silence for awhile, making sure the pieces of the puzzle box moved smoothly together.

"You think he'll accept it?" Cassie asked abruptly, voice small and almost lost in the sound of the sandpaper rasping over wood.

"To apprentice to Rick?" Derek murmured, setting the pieces down and turning to her. Jesus, she even looked like she was about to burst out of her skin, too much nervous energy combining with too little sleep.

"Yeah." Her voice cracked, making him ache in sympathy.

It was possible Stiles would refuse Rick's overtures, although he hadn't so far. But the pendant, from everything he'd gathered, was more than just a book. Things would Change, whether he accepted or he didn't. Derek just didn't know what those changes would be, either way.

"I think so," He admitted. Stiles was-He was happy in Portland. Even after the near misses and fights, he was happy. They were happy, functional, even. That had to count for something.

Cassie still looked uncertain, chewing on her thumbnail. Taking pity on her, he turned off the light over his workbench and jerked his chin at the door.

"Let's go for a run."

"We're supposed to be there for dinner," Cassie reminded him, although it was a weak protest at best. He knew she needed to burn off her anxiety.

Even with Caroline's command to join them for Christmas Eve didn't deter him. "We'll get there in time," He promised. "If you beat me to the edge of the forest, I'll let you call him tonight."

" _Let_ me?" She drawled, her mood almost visibly lifting as she got up.

"I won't tell your mom," He amended. It was Christmas Eve. And it was a phone call, Caroline hadn't said anything about calling Stiles. Implied, maybe. But 'implied' didn't exactly count as an order.

"Deal."

(He let her win. They were also half an hour later to dinner. Caroline didn't say anything, however, when she pointedly plucked a leaf out of Cassie's hair at the dinner table.)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somewhere along the way he'd let his guard down. _And look what had happened._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coda to Chapter 12
> 
> Trigger Warnings: Guns

Derek tried his best to keep his breathing even and steady. Caroline's office was her 'official' space, the room where she conducted almost all of the mundane aspects for her alpha duties. Rick and Marianne were the only ones that were allowed free access to it, and he'd only been inside a few times, first during his courting interviews, and then once after, when he'd asked Rick to make more sleep thorns to send to Stiles. Nothing good ever happened in the office. Cassie sat in the chair next to his, her body vibrating from tension. Ever since Stiles had left all of them had been on edge.

"I need your opinions, both of you," Caroline told them.

"About what?" Cassie asked. She clearly knew what her mother meant and was trying to play dumb in an attempt to fend it off. He couldn't help but wonder why she tried after living with an alpha for so many years.

"Stiles' capabilities," Rick answered firmly. Derek could feel him watching him.

"His _capabilities_ don't matter, you're not taking him on a hunt," Cassie snapped, making the word sound dirty. Derek could feel her gaze moving to him, expectation obvious. To agree with her, to shelter Stiles, to say 'no'. He had before, he didn't know why it was so difficult now, when it was so important.

"Derek?" Caroline prompted when he didn't speak.

He ran a hand over his face and tried to think of how to word it. He wasn't just talking to his alpha. He was talking to his alpha about taking Stiles on a _hunt_ , one that would, at the very least, end up with several people dead. Too many 'at worsts' presented themselves, all of them made worse because imagination would never live up to experience. The phantom itch of blood running down his palms and over his wrists made him tense, the stench of copper and rot wafting, settling into his nose and mouth.

"When we were back in Beacon Hills, if he wasn't included, he would come looking for us," He admitted, and only because he knew Stiles was just as likely to do it now as he had back then. It would have been reassuring, on any other day, in any other situation. That dedication, absolute in every sense of the word. But the hunters were well trained, had managed to find out who and what Caroline was and take her down. It had been dangerous before, but it felt even more so now, probably because he'd allowed himself to believe in the illusion of safety. Somewhere along the way he'd let his guard down. _And look what had happened._

"But we can keep him here-" Cassie protested.

"Given how he reacted today, how do you think he would take that?" Rick pointed out. "He went out of his way, revealed what he was keeping secret, just to show us that he was more than proficient with a gun."

"Why does he even have one?" Cassie demanded, leveling her parents with a glare. As though it was somehow _their_ fault. Derek didn't know if he would survive that glare being turned on him if he corrected her, admitted it was his fault. Like a coward, he remained silent and allowed the brunt of that castigation remain fixed on Caroline.

"Beacon Hills had more than it's fair share of problems with infighting, Cassie," Caroline replied calmly. Derek tried his damnedest not to flinch and failed, if Rick's sympathetic frown was anything to judge by. "Considering that Stiles is the son of an officer and on friendly terms with an Argent, it's not surprising. He was correct, in reminding us that we shouldn't have forgotten his affiliations. If anything, it's a demonstration of intelligence on his part that he's prepared. We all should have considered it before."

Derek had to agree with that. Even if the sight of Stiles calmly and efficiently loading and shooting the pistol had rocked something in him, something dark and unpleasant, better left unremembered. Wolfsbane still lingered in his nostrils, burnt and corrosive.

"Derek, you know him best. What do you think?"

He knew Caroline wasn't asking him his opinion from the perspective of friendship, that she was asking as an alpha attempting to protect her pack. And as difficult as it was, he forced himself into the same mindset, no matter how much he hated himself for it, no matter how awful he had been at it before. He also knew Cassie was going to tear into him for it, but he nodded tightly.

"Stiles has advantages we don't. He could be helpful."

"Derek!" Cassie snarled, eyes flashing. Her claws were digging into the armchair.

"Cassie, sit _down_ ," Caroline snapped. "This is still only potential, nothing is decided. But Derek's right. Of the two people capable of healing us, Stiles is the one proficient in the use of a firearm. It's not something that can be ignored because of personal feelings."

"But he still has nightmares about that place!" Cassie argued. Derek shuddered, knowing what Stiles had nightmares about, and knew he could very easily be undoing everything he tried so hard to help make better. "You don't think this will just make them worse?"

"That is Stiles' decision," Rick told his daughter. "We can't make the choice of what he's willing to endure."

"That's not acceptable," Cassie roared, ignoring her mother's red eyes bearing down on her. "Derek, are you seriously going along with this? Do you want him to get hurt?"

"Of course I don't. But if we don't he might decide to act on his own," Derek snapped, hating the raw anger, the resentment in Cassie's voice. "Better to have him with us than trying to shadow us. Or worse," He added, because he knew with absolute certainty Stiles could and would take the initiative. He had the names and aliases of the hunters, and the part of town they were staying in. It was more than enough to get him killed. "At least we'll know where he is to try and keep him safe."

"Screw that, we can chain him up in the cellar if we have to," Cassie replied, panicking.

Derek couldn't stop the hopeless laugh that escaped as he shook his head and then cradled it in his palms, his calm fracturing even as he tried to hold fast to it. "You didn't see him back then," He explained, the words coming out in halting as his chest tried to tighten down around each breath. "Stiles doesn't care what could happen to him. When it comes to protecting the people he cares about- Christ, Cassie, he drove his car through a building once just to buy some time. He threatened to use wolfsbane on your mother, knowing she was an alpha! What would he do if we tried to chain him up? You _know_ him," Derek finished, trying to swallow only to fail when his panic gripped his throat in a quickly tightening noose.

He'd wanted for it to be over, to be safe. He wanted Stiles to be safe, to be able to grow up without having to fight anymore. Leaving Beacon Hills was supposed to be the end of it. Apparently they couldn't outrun it, and he hated fate, hated the universe's sense of irony because now more than ever had had to keep Stiles safe.

"Cassie, I need you to go with your father," Caroline said softly, when the silence in the room had become oppressive with unspoken censure and rage.

"Mom-"

"Cassandra, now, we'll speak later. I need a moment with Derek."

Cassie glared at him on the way out, a look promising retribution for not siding with her, for not protecting Stiles. Rick followed her out, but he paused and dropped and hand onto his shoulder and squeezed once before walking away and closing the door behind him.

"This is a very difficult position," Caroline said, her voice conveying her empathy. "Stiles is extremely stubborn, and he's not my beta, so I can't tell him what to do. I doubt very much he would listen anyway."

"He wouldn't," Derek agreed. If anything, Stiles would probably find the hunters first, and god help all of them then.

"Do you think he'll be able to handle being a part of this?"

Derek thought about everything else Stiles had done, everything he'd been a part of. The thought of 'handling it' felt like a joke. They'd never handled it. They'd endured until things got better. Maybe that's all they were capable of.

"He has us now." It wasn't an answer, but he hoped it would be enough. Needed it to be enough.

"I understand."

"Cassie-" Derek faltered, thinking about Cassie, knowing she'd be a long time in forgiving him for putting Stiles in harm's way. If only she knew.

"I'll speak to her. These situations are never clean or easy, and it's something she has to learn." She paused, his posture, not relaxing exactly, but she looked less like his alpha and more like a concerned friend. "I know how much this is costing you."

Derek nodded, accepting the apology for what it was.

"Will you be willing to come?"

He nodded again. The question hadn't even needed to be asked. If Stiles was going, he'd force his way into the hunt if he had to. He had the suspicion that Caroline was asking him because she understood the inevitability.

"Thank you, Derek. I'd give Cassie some time with Rick to cool off. But Stiles will probably need you right now."

Derek knew the dismissal when he heard it and got up on wooden legs, trying to remember how to walk.

"And Derek?"

He paused.

"Making a person your anchor is dangerous, for this exact reason. Be careful."

Derek flinched at the warning, at the unwanted confirmation of someone _knowing_ , but nodded in acknowledgment and walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At some point Derek's anchor changed to Stiles. And no, he's not going to tell him any time soon. Or ever.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _These are the tenets of our Work. Objectivity. Distance. Impartiality._
> 
>  
> 
> _ControlControlControl._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Codas to chapter 13
> 
> Most of these were originally in TAoFaN as chapter 14, since removed. I've added one for Deaton, and edited the others a bit (not massively though, if you've already read them). 
> 
> Order:  
> Derek's POV  
> Rick's POV  
> Deaton's POV  
> Cassie's POV
> 
> Trigger Warnings: Emotional manipulation, emotional baggage

** Derek's POV **

Derek ignored his phone the first time it rang. Every time Stiles left town Cassie became more clingy than usual. As much as he cared about her, it didn't change the fact that he was working on making something for her father, and the distaff required focus if he didn't want to screw it up. Since it was supposed to be a tool for his magic, precision was a necessity. He didn't know if a flaw would affect the magic, persay, but he wasn't willing to risk it.

When his phone stopped and then started over again, he muttered, sat the shaft of maple down and dug in his pocket. Stiles' name flashed on the screen. One hand switched off the lathe before he was tugging off his glove with his teeth and hitting the answer button. Stiles didn't randomly call while he was in Beacon Hills. Per tradition (Cassie's insisted once was enough to make tradition) the first hour of Christmas belonged to them, but otherwise they let him have the time with his dad.

"Stiles?"

There was a long pause before a choked 'hey' echoed through the line. Derek thought he heard something crackling in the distance and the sound of wind. Straining to hear it, he waited for Stiles to say why he'd called. When he didn't, the slight tinge of worry deepened. It wasn't fear, not yet.

"You sound off," Derek tried, walking over to his workbench and sitting down.

"Like milk," Stiles mumbled. Derek recognized the joke but not the tone. Worry shifted to dread.

"Did you dream?"

Stiles made a choked sound that had probably started as one of his self deprecating laughs. "No more than usual."

"Stiles, what happened?" Derek demanded, dread already taking on the restlessness of panic. He was already leaving his workshop and heading for the house to grab his jacket and keys. As much as he wanted to avoid Beacon Hills, something had gone wrong, very wrong for Stiles to be so quiet.

"I'm in Waldport."

"I'll meet you there." What the hell was he doing in Waldport? If something had happened, why hadn't he come home?

"Derek, it's not-" Stiles started, voice tinged with desperation. Derek didn't know why Stiles was backpedaling, but whatever had driven him out of California was obviously messing with him. Not surprising since Stiles held Christmas with his dad as sacrosanct. Whatever it was, it wasn't 'not a big deal', which he knew, emphatically, Stiles was about to say.

"Where are you?" He demanded, shrugging on his jacket.

"The vista on Rio."

"I'll be there," He promised quietly, closing the door and heading back for his car before spinning on his heel to go back and lock the front door.

"Thank you," Stiles whispered, voice thick. Panicked because of the sincerity, the hopeless gratitude that echoed in Stiles' words, Derek made and affirmative sound and cut off the call, shifting to his gps to get directions to Waldport.

Dozens of scenarios brought themselves to mind, digging out of his subconscious where he normally kept them locked down. The worst of them all was that Stiles was leaving, that he hadn't come home because Beacon Hills had somehow ensnared him again. Maybe Scott had finally seen the light, maybe he and Stiles had made up. Maybe Stiles realized he could be happy in Beacon Hills.

Guilt immediately followed the thought. The disintegration of his relationship with Scott had been difficult for Stiles, was still difficult, even if it wasn't something he acknowledged all that often. If they had managed to fix things, if Stiles wanted to be with his brother, could be happy with his best friend, then he deserved that.

It didn't stop the sinking feeling in his stomach as he drove towards the coast, knuckles white on the steering wheel and wondering what the hell he would do if Stiles left.

When he saw Stiles' jeep on the vista overlooking the ocean, he pulled in next to him. Stiles was sitting on his hood, hugging himself and staring out blankly over the water. Not wanting to push him when he was already on edge, he got out and jumped up on the hood next to him. He wondered if the salt he smelled was from the water or from Stiles.

"I have so much shit in my head right now," Stiles finally muttered, the words spilling into the air like steam and vanishing. "If I fucked up but things changed-" He started, pausing. Derek forced himself to keep from barking a demand for him to just spit it out already, to end the suspense. "If I promised that things were different-"

"What are you talking about?" He asked, because Stiles looked completely ready to get back in his jeep and haul ass in the general direction of 'away'.

"I always thought Scott would choose me," Stiles admitted. "I thought he would wake up one day and realize that I was gone and come running after me like some lovesick teenage girl."

"He is good at that," Derek replied, unsure of where Stiles was trying to go with the conversation. Because it sounded a lot like Scott hadn't. And he wasn't sure what he was supposed to do with that, because it meant nothing had changed.

"Yeah," Stiles agreed. "He'd have flowers and shit too. And his fucking ridiculous puppy dog eyes."

"Not as good as Cassie's." Maybe it was because he'd never really like Scott, but Cassie was fairly persuasive when she pouted. Derek strayed away from thinking of her as a sister. Being a member of his family never ended well.

"I used to imagine going home and just settling back in, playing halo and making fun of him because he sucks. We'd eat three pizzas, drink ass tons of mountain dew and keep making fun of each other so we'd hold it until we almost killed each other trying to get to the bathroom first."

"Sounds pleasant." It really didn't.

"Surprised you never noticed the smell outside my window."

He spasmed, thinking about all the times he had crawled up the side of the house to that window.

"Kidding dude. Scott peed in my shower a few times, but the window was always off limits."

He growled out a quiet 'asshole'. Trust Stiles to turn a serious discussion into an anecdote about his and Scott's bladders.

When Stiles started talking again, he almost wished they'd go back to the embarrassing stories about bodily functions.

"I treated Portland like fucking Switzerland in some sort of silent war, right? Only I pretended it wasn't happening and I don't think Scott even realized there was a problem. But I just-Waited, at first. Like Scott would just call or show up and beg me to come back, kick the others out and tell me I had always been pack, that he couldn't have one without me."

The confession actually hurt, which was surprising. He'd known Stiles had been running away from Beacon Hills, had wanted to help him, needed to, if he was being honest. Stiles had been a shot at trying to make some good come out of Beacon Hills. And that- That made him wonder if he was being mocked. Not by Stiles, but by the universe at large. Because maybe he hadn't been any better, and Stiles was apologizing in the same ass backwards way he always did when it actually meant something to him. He'd been terrified Stiles was leaving him, selfishly afraid Stiles had fixed things and-Jesus. He hadn't changed that much at all, apparently.

It wasn't until Stiles said that Deaton had known everything that he felt his world narrow to a pinpoint. If he had been worried before, it was drowned out beneath the sound of his blood roaring in his ears, heat and hatred blooming and smothering everything else.

"Everything?"

Stiles nodded and shrugged, looking angry and exhausted at the same time.

Red colored his vision and tinted the world. He couldn't stop the snarl, knew it wouldn't help, but Stiles was saying that Deaton had essentially left him to die, all for the good of a pack that had been broken the moment it had formed around a blind, childish alpha. True Alpha be damned, he couldn't help but resent Scott, regardless of whether he'd been guided by Deaton or not. Because Scott should have known better, should have actually looked instead clinging blindly to his anchor.

Derek opened his mouth to speak, couldn't figure out what he should say because Christ, he was doing his level best to remain calm, to hold tight to his anchor, which had never been more unsure then at that very moment, and prayed he wouldn't do something stupid. God, Caroline had been right. Allowing a human to become his anchor was _dangerous_ , but he hadn't been able to stop it, even acknowledging that danger. He'd just never considered this scenario when it had happened.

"I've been thinking. About the past couple of years and everything. Like, I've been really stupid. Self centered, an asshole. It's not really anything new, just the extent of it, I guess. Because for two seconds I thought about telling Scott what Deaton had done. Fight the whole thing, figure shit out."

And there it was. Derek felt his world begin to blink out, light by light, growing more and more dim as hurt and panic rose up in his throat like bile, acrid and scorching.

"Then I realized that it would mean I would have to leave. Fuck Derek. I stopped wanting Scott to come and get me. I mean, don't get me wrong, I want us to figure out how to be friends somehow. But-But I don't want to give up you or Cas."

Derek felt his lungs expanding, his chest relaxing enough to breathe.

"Fucking Christ, I'm a shit. I know I am. But you guys-I can't-" Stiles alternated between blurting and stumbling over his words, like he had everything in his head but couldn't actually force them out. Derek found himself sympathizing. "I fucked up, back then. And I fucked up by not dealing with it sooner. I just-I didn't even think. It was so easy to just go with it all and ignore the implications. Like maybe no one would fucking notice, or something. I don't know when I stopped giving a shit about being in Scott's pack and started pretending I was a part of yours."

"You think you've been pretending?" He bit out, surprised by how much that bothered him. Stiles had been a more active part of the pack than most of the betas.

"Well I haven't oathed or anything-"

"You saved Caroline's life. You went on a hunt. You come to the gatherings. You've-" He was thankful the frustrated whine came out as a grunt. "You're pack in everything but name."

"Except for now," Stiles muttered, biting at his lip, worrying it. "Rick's been talking to Deaton since I was seventeen."

Shit. _Shit._ Suddenly Rick's curiosity about Stiles, Caroline's willingness to accommodate him- It made more sense, in that light. Derek knew Stiles' gift was an asset, that Stiles was an asset. He'd been an alpha, so he knew the mentality, at least in part. Caroline and Rick both had to have seen it.

Had Caroline's acceptance of him, so much more obvious after she'd seen Stiles, been a part of it? Caroline had read his memories, she knew how damaged he was, how much he'd done wrong, every mistake, every catastrophic decision. When she'd first accepted him he'd been grateful she hadn't run him out of her territory. And he'd wondered, sometimes, why she'd allowed him to become friends with her daughter, why she'd allowed him into her _home_. If he'd been an inroad to Stiles-And now- Bits and pieces of his world felt like they were beginning to crumble beneath his feet.

"I don't know what the fuck I'm doing," Stiles admitted, oblivious to the crisis taking place right beside him. Derek didn't begrudge him his own panic. The whole thing was fucked.

"But I don't want to leave you guys. Even if I'm not pack or whatever. Unless you want me to. And I'd get it. I mean, I screwed up."

Stiles didn't care if he was pack or not.

Stiles-

He wasn't leaving, regardless of the pack. And Derek bit back the urge to mutter a prayer to any of the many gods people typically prayed to because he didn't know if he was going to be able to face Caroline anymore either.

"I'm sorry I'm such a massive fuck up and I fail at friendship."

Derek couldn't stop the bitter, sarcastic laugh that bubbled up out of his throat.

"I think of the two of us, I still come out first."

"Oh come on," Stiles groaned. "Dude, I thought you were past this self flagellation thing. Jesus, I came to you because I trusted you. And you're an awesome friend."

"I let you come to me because I was the one that broke you," Derek snapped, anger blustering up to hide the guilt he felt. Because he'd been the one that had let Caroline help. He'd agreed. God _damnit_.

"Wait-What?" Stiles snapped. "You're my friend out of guilt?"

"At first," He muttered, wanting to run, to get the hell away from Stiles because what he was doing was dangerous, every instinct screaming against leaving himself so vulnerable. "You came to me," He sighed, ran a hand over his face like maybe it could block out the hurt in Stiles' expression. He wasn't shocked when it didn't. "I screwed up everything back there. I got people killed. You got pulled into it, and you got messed up by it. But you came to me," He repeated, still surprised that Stiles had chosen him to run to at all. Regardless of the fact that they'd always pulled eachother out of the fire, he'd run hundreds of miles to him. "When you showed up so fucking _broken_ ," Another shrug that probably failed to hide his discomfort. "It felt like I could do something right. Like I could make up for all the damage somehow."

He didn't admit that seeing Stiles get better had given him some sort of vague, distant hope that he might not always be just as broken.

"What about now?" Stiles asked, voice cracking. And Derek found another thing about himself to hate. Because he'd had a hand in creating the situation Stiles was facing, as much of one as Stiles. If he'd called the sheriff, if he'd gone back to Beacon Hills- There were so many things he could have done and hadn't.

"What do you want me to say, Stiles?"

"The truth?"

"You're not a project," Derek admitted, his throat going tight as he tried to figure out what to say, how to say it. Time hadn't made talking about himself, exposing himself any easier. "You're a pain in the ass and obnoxious, you live to find new ways to annoy the hell out of me but you're also loyal and so goddamn smart. You just keep giving parts of yourself like you'll never run out, keep throwing yourself in the way even though you'll know you'll get hurt again and it's so goddamn frustrating. But I trust you because you do it so other people don't end up as screwed up as we are. Just don't- " The rush of words abruptly stopped as he strangled and bit them back, stopping himself from admitting his own vulnerability. Even now he was protecting himself. Saying it would be far worse though, admitting that he cared so much, that Stiles had become the cornerstone of his everyday control. He stared at his fists to cover his struggle for words and conceal his own embarrassment. He felt childish, so shameful for wanting, for being so goddamn dependent on someone he'd been trying to help.

"Don't what?" Stiles prompted, staring at him like he knew how important this was, how difficult.

"Don't leave," He muttered, clenching his eyes shut because he felt so small and weak, so helpless suddenly, in a way he had never experienced before. Because Stiles was important. He'd become important, become a part of his life, made him want to be someone worthy of the friendship they'd built.

"Fuck," Stiles whispered, scrubbing his face. "I'm sorry," He repeated, and Derek wanted to tell him that he needed to stop apologizing, that if Stiles had fucked up, he had too. "I'm not- You, I trust you. I-" A restless hand tugged at his hair. "I'm won't leave. You," Stiles stuttered and blurted out, a tangle of words and pauses.

Derek felt them echo through him, wondering for a minute if he'd heard wrong, if he'd imagined it. But Stiles was staring at him, expression lost and hopeful and dejected all at once, waiting for an answer, for a response.

Stiles wasn't going to leave. Whatever else he was doing, whatever else he decided, he wasn't leaving. Derek wondered if he listed out his sins more carefully, if he made it clearer to Stiles just how badly he had screwed up, if it would make Stiles reconsider.

It was startling and humbling to realize that it wouldn't. Derek didn't know if the realization itself or the certainty of it was more bewildering.

"Come on," He murmured several minutes later. Stiles followed him as he slipped off of the hood of the jeep to the truck. He got into the back seat and pushed the console down, propping up his feet. Stiles only hesitated for a moment before curling against him, pressed close. His scent was still tinged with salt and brine, cold shivering through him. Derek barely noticed any of it, only felt Stiles pressed against him, seeking comfort and warmth despite everything. Trusting him, despite everything.

"I don't think anyone is ever completely selfless," He mumbled into the darkness of the cab. "But that-It doesn't mean some things aren't real." It was an apology and forgiveness and even a grain of the truth he was biting back, hopefully conveyed well enough to ease the guilt he knew Stiles felt.

Stiles nodded into his shoulder and Derek felt, if not absolved, less guilty than he had before.

"I have to talk to everyone, don't I?" Stiles asked.

"Yeah," He sighed, relaxing a little. The petulant whine had returned to Stiles' voice, and it was the first sign that Stiles was beginning to come back to himself, finding his own feet.

"It's going to involve more feelings, isn't it?"

"Probably."

"That's going to suck," Stiles bit out, voice sour.

He toned down the chuckle into a grunt before it escaped. When Stiles shifted to glare at him, he rolled his eyes to cover his own relief that equilibrium was reasserting itself, allowing them both some room to breathe.

"Sorry I ruined Christmas."

"You didn't ruin Christmas Stiles."

"Pretty sure I did."

"We can blame Deaton," He growled, thinking about Deaton. And the things he could do to the emissary long before he could get to his mountain ash. Maybe he'd start with the man's car. No, better not give him any warning. It wasn't sporting, but it wasn't baseball.

"Deaton as the Grinch. You know, we compare him to green dudes a lot. Like Yoda. Next it'll be Hulk. The emo one, not the awesome ones," Stiles added a second later, sniggering.

That was an image he didn't need.

"Godzilla?" He suggested, for want of anything better to say.

"Shrek."

"Slimer," He added thoughtfully, liking the comparison more.

"Yoshi."

"Kermit," He tried, unable to think of another green character.

"You win," Stiles said, choking on the laugh that sounded absurdly like something being strangled. Derek bit back his own smile. It didn't really help the situation, making the problem into a joke. But they had the morning to deal with it. Now- Now he just wanted to sleep, to relax because everything else could end up going to hell in a handbasket. His pack, his job, his house, maybe his access to Portland entirely. Except Stiles was sticking by him. It was more comforting than he should have allowed it to be. Then again, he'd had to start over with less.

"We're going to have to sort all of this out."

"We?"

"We," He repeated, feeling more sure of his statement at the hope Stiles had flavored the word with.

Stiles hummed, cuddling closer into his warmth, nosing his shoulder like an overgrown puppy until he raised his arm. He muttered something meant to sound exasperated to cover the sensation of his entire body relaxing. It was uncomfortable, they were both too tall, the position too awkward for the back seat of a truck, however roomy it was. But he let Stiles arrange himself, didn't complain.

"Thanks."

"What?" He'd been soaking in the scent of ocean and leather and Stiles, drifting a little in all three.

"For being as emotionally crippled as I am and therefore empathetic to my inability at making friends like a sane human being?"

That was almost funny. Only, not really.

"I have no idea why we're friends," He mocked.

"Masochists, the both of us. In a normal relationship there's a sadist and safewords but-"

Jesus Christ.

" _Go to sleep_ , Stiles," He grumbled. He wasn't smiling. No, that would be-There was no point to smiling at a comment like that.

"Bet you wish we still had the eight ball."

Of course he had to have the last word.

"Sleep," He commanded. And no, the eight ball was useless. 'Better not tell you now,' his ass. That thing even existing was asking for trouble.

Stiles fell asleep long before he did, his breathing deepening and evening out. Derek savored the warmth, the pressure of the body against his and ignored the conscious, niggling part of his brain that asked him if he knew what the hell he was doing after all.

* * *

  
**Rick's POV**  
  


Rick listened to Deaton's explanation, growing more and more incensed as the emissary offered the events that had occurred. He had no doubt he was still being given a heavily censored version of what had taken place, but he supposed that was for the best, since he was considering going to Beacon Hills (damn that place and all the grief it caused) and shooting the man. Maybe he should have resisted Caroline more when she'd told him to start training with Stiles.

"I understand, Deaton," Rick finally said, switching back to the man's last name, something he hadn't done since they had started discussing Stiles' link to the nemeton. "We will speak with Stiles."

"I'd appreciate that."

Rick didn't give a good goddamn what he appreciated, but he made an affirmative noise and hung up without saying goodbye. Caroline remained seated behind her desk, eyes clenched shut. Rick could feel the anger, the distress rolling off of her. Even if he hadn't been able to read her thread, he could read her. The barely controlled urge to destroy something (probably her desk, which had only been replaced a few years ago after similar violence) was making itself known in her clenched fists and forced, even breathing.

"I know you all operate on your own agendas," Caroline started, but Rick stopped her, slamming the phone down on the desk and snarling. Because that particular accusation hurt. In the three decades he'd been with his wife, he'd picked up some of her mannerisms, hers and those of wolves in general, and he'd never appreciated it more, satisfied to have a visceral sound to express himself instead of searching uselessly for words. Caroline's eyes flew open, and he saw the relief there, that he didn't agree with what Deaton had done, that he was as angry as she was.

"We are not supposed to do that," He ground out, trying not to be bothered by her blatant relief. She couldn't know, not when the situation had never occurred before. But it did bother him, considering the simple reason it had never occurred was because he had never acted like Deaton had. "Acting for the good of the pack does not mean actively damaging children."

Caroline nodded tightly.

He wanted to rage, to explode, to sink into himself. His own thoughts, his own arguments came back to haunt him and hoist him own his own petard. He hadn't even wanted Stiles in Portland in the beginning, and now he was enraged on behalf of a child that hadn't stood a chance against his circumstances.

"No wonder he ran," Caroline muttered. "We knew the situation was bad, but-" She shook her head. "What was that man thinking?"

"Deaton lost the Hale pack," Rick reminded her, although it wasn't justification. Nothing could justify what the emissary had done. Maybe he was too close to the situation, had bound himself too tightly to the pack for objectivity. He'd certainly been accused of it more than once. Other emissaries might nod and disregard the wrongness of the man's actions based on his need to stabilize the alpha, to save the pack as a whole. There would be head shaking over the lost potential, but a feral alpha posed too much risk, was too much of a threat to the world around them and to the supernatural community as a whole.

Still, he knew there had to have been other options. Anything besides cutting the boy loose to see if he sank or managed to keep his head above water long enough for someone else to find him.

"I don't care," Caroline finally said. "I don't care what his reasons were. Stiles was a _child_."

Rick knew what Caroline was thinking, that children were sacred, that the protection of children superseded any other duty. That was more than just her instincts as a mother, it was her instinct as an alpha. And despite his experiences, despite anything Stiles himself might have said to the contrary, he'd still been a child.

Rick hated Beacon Hills in a way he had never really hated a place before. It wasn't that he was incapable of hatred (time had proven he was more than capable), but hating a place had always seemed like a scapegoat, shifting culpability onto something inert. But knowing what had occurred there, to Derek and to Stiles, he couldn't help _but_ hate it. If he was given to superstition (almost laughable considering), he would think that too much blood had been spilled over the nemeton, too many lives destroyed, that had seeped into the soil and polluted the town. Like a self sustaining curse that used each slaughter to keep itself strong. But it didn't work that way, however much he wished it did. It was just people. People full of hatred or fear reacting instead of thinking.

It was some sort of miracle that Derek and Stiles made it out alive. Not undamaged, but alive. Still, he couldn't help but wonder how different they'd be if they'd lived anywhere else. Their 'natural' inclination to distrust others, including those in the pack to a point, hadn't gone unnoticed. Deaton's revelations would only make it worse.

"What do we do?" Caroline finally asked. Rick knew she was deferring to him as an emissary, that she was allowing him to make the decision because he had taken him in as his apprentice, that Stiles was technically his charge and not hers. But he also knew she wanted his advice as her partner, and he hoped the both of those roles coincided.

"I'll talk to him first," He decided. "I owe him an explanation, and an apology." And that was something that would be difficult. How to tell someone that had needed security, security that had been offered, that you hadn't even wanted him there-No matter the reason for it, he'd been against letting the boy stay. Rick hoped Stiles had it in himself to forgive him. At the moment he wasn't sure how Stiles would feel. There were too many variables, and there was a good chance logic would not be what dictated the situation. Not that he couldn't understand that. Stiles had trusted Deaton. Hell, he had trusted Deaton. Obviously he had been an idiot to not examine the man's motivations, his actions more carefully. "And then I'll extend my offer to keep training him."

Caroline exhaled, a sigh of relief that swept through him. He envied her faith in him, in Stiles. For all that he could read the world in ways even he couldn't articulate, he had troubles finding that faith, that hope.

"He's part of our family," She finally said. "I want him to know that, no matter what he decides."

Rick nodded. Stiles and Derek both had been dragged into their home by their daughter, and even though he'd been afraid of it, of what could have happened, he wasn't anymore. The two fit, and he'd be lying to himself if he didn't acknowledge that Stiles was more than just his apprentice, Derek more than just his wife's beta. And if Stiles left-

He had no illusions that they would lose the pair, and his daughter in the process.

(When Cassie stood her ground, declaring that they were hers, he felt his heart stutter and twist. Later, when Stiles said 'I've been using you', Rick had to stop himself from cutting off the apology, to say he was forgiven. He recognized Stiles' need to lay out his own flaws, to apologize, if only because the absolution would give him peace. And even acknowledging the errors Stiles had made, he knew too much, had seen too much evidence to the contrary to think Stiles didn't care.)

* * *

  
**Deaton's POV**  
  


Hours after Stiles had stormed out of his clinic, hours after he'd left town, hours after explaining everything to a quietly furious emissary, Alan went through the motions of closing the clinic. Taking out the trash, checking on the two cats and the singular dog sleeping in kennels in the back, turning off the lights, turning the closed sign and locking the door. It was almost a relief to get in his car, but only 'almost', because while he looked forward to getting home, he was already bowing beneath the pressure of the air outside, the sensation heavier than normal. The world around him reached out, the whispers scrabbling against his mind testament to his fraying control. The drive itself was a test of endurance, his hands shaking by the time he pulled into his driveway.

His home, always a sanctuary from the world, was quiet in every sense of the world. The moment he stepped through the door, the whispers ceased and he was able to draw in a deep, calming breath. Still braced against his door, he waited for the stifling blanket of his wards to muffle what tried to get in, each moment another practiced breath, a meditative habit that forced the voices down and out like the air expelled through his mouth.

_We are as stone._

The pain didn't abate, however, the pervasive sense of shame that he'd managed to fend off for years with nothing but vague assurances of the future.

Ten minutes and a generous dose of rum only seemed to make it worse.

Maybe maudlin, maybe drunk (well on his way, at least) he went to his study and pulled down a blackened, leatherbound book. One of the few volumes that hadn't been completely consumed by the fire, the painted crest on the front was warped, damaged from heat and smoke. Memories were tightly bound to the pages, magic rising beneath his fingers, seeping through the wood and leather binding. Memories of Before, when he'd still be so sure of his purpose and so ignorant of what they really meant.

His fingers traced the Hale crest, blackened and faded. It was scattered all over the town, tattooed on Derek's back, traced in Stiles' eye, a lingering, mocking memory of what had been, of everything he'd done wrong.

A thousand regrets pulled at him. He was not an emotional man. If he had ever been, if there had ever been the potential for it, it had been trained out of him when he'd still been young and new to his gift. But regret was the closest he had that could come to sorrow. And regret was easy, simple for all the mistakes he'd made following the doctrines of his teacher. (His Uncle, not an emotional man either.)

_These are the tenets of our Work. Objectivity. Distance. Impartiality._

_ControlControlControl._

He'd followed the Rules, used his gift sparingly and aided only when asked, because Emissaries could not afford to become close, to be emotional. The nature of his gift had made it difficult, even if his sister had always told him that he had it easy. (They were always two halves of a better whole. He could only See and she could only Feel.) But when he had been young, he had stayed within the lines of the creed.

_You are Counsel, not Consort._

And he'd lost the entire pack in the process.

(Objectivity proved impossible after the first three weeks. The cries of the dying had hurt more than the echo of the fire.)

Even when Laura had come back-

He shuddered, feeling nauseous. The rum burned in his stomach, more acid than warmth.

In a hamfisted attempt to rectify his mistakes, he'd told her the truth, and she hadn't believed him. Her last words still hung, heavy and poisonous, in the back of his mind. The words themselves lingered in his office and in the place where she'd died. The resurgence of the nemeton's power had only made them louder, given life and made ghosts of memories. Or maybe it was only his regret that allowed her voice to remain so clear.

Her brother was innocent. Her uncle was catatonic. His words were baseless, an insult to her mother's memory. Her pack was her own, and he had no place speaking to her of it.

 _You're just bitter that we survived and mom didn't! It's_ your _fault._

(Gods knew it might have been the truth. Every decision after had been fueled by a force even he couldn't understand. His all seeing eye only looked out, not in.)

For all of her magnificent fury, so like her mother in those moments, she'd still gotten killed. He'd still Lost her.

Stiles had echoed that fury, had borne it like a wolf instead of a man. Another difference, a reminder of how necessary it had been to get Stiles out, away from the pack. Away from Scott.

Stiles would never be like him, would never allow tradition to dictate his actions. He would become the kind of emissary that was also pack, that would create new rules and protocols. With the aid of his gift, he would become something great. Alan knew from bitter experience that the world had changed, and the Old Way had to change with it. Stiles would be a part of that change, an example that would command respect. Others would look to him, would emulate his relationship with the pack. The rule of distance would fade, and something better would take it's place.

 _So now you've found faith?_ (His sister had always seen right through him.)

The book beneath his hand hummed with memory and magic. He pushed it to the side, the crest taunting him from the corner of his eye. Not today, not yet. Maybe never again.

Even with that hope, he allowed another regret to sink in, to take hold and claim it's spot on his conscience. Another stain that marred what had once been pristine. He did not regret that he had acted to secure the future. But he regretted that for all his skills, he'd lacked the wisdom to find another path.

Alan poured himself another glass of rum. All the better then, that Stiles would never be like him.

* * *

****  
Cassie's POV  
  


When she tried to call Derek, it was only mildly surprising that he didn't answer. When Stiles left, he typically spent all day at work or in his workshop. Then he'd either crash with her or she would find him in Stiles' room at their house, and crash with him. It was probably the only thing that kept them from going there and standing guard over Stiles.

But she'd been antsy. Her parents were quiet, more quiet than they normally were, and on edge. It felt like something bad had happened or was about to happen, and they refused to tell anyone about it, to divulge any hint about what was bothering them. Even Marianne didn't have a clue, which was unusual enough to warrant a healthy dose of fear. Her mother's second _always_ knew what was going on. The house had become stifling, the complete opposite of what it normally was. Or maybe it was just her. Her sisters were doing fine, her cousins clueless to everything. Maybe she was projecting.

Still, it didn't stop her from leaving, going to Derek's. He would be home from work, probably in his workshop.

He wasn't. His truck was gone, the house was empty, the workshop equally so. In fact, the workshop had been left unlocked, and that was never a good sign. Derek was borderline pathological in his need to lock up, something she barely understood since her home was rarely empty and the front door almost always unlocked.

She tried calling Derek again, only to have it go straight to voicemail.

He never shut off his phone. Especially not when Stiles was in Beacon Hills. Neither of them did that, an unspoken agreement in case Stiles needed them.

Dread began twisting in her stomach, forming knots as she drove through the city and ignored holiday traffic to get to Stiles' apartment.

Empty.

In a last ditch effort, she drove to the warehouse where Derek worked, banging on the locked door because she heard the sound of someone working inside. Derek's truck wasn't there, but that didn't mean anything.

Miles wrenched the door open, ready to yell at her, she knew the pose he adopted when he did, he'd done it often enough. But he stopped, staring at her quizzically.

"Is Derek here?" She asked, trying to keep the panic out of her voice and failing.

"No, he called yesterday, said he needed to take a few personal days. Won't be back in until after Christmas."

Cassie stared dumbly at Miles.

Personal days.

"Thanks," She muttered, spinning on her heels and going back to her car.

Personal days. Until after Christmas.

She drove, growing more and more angry by the second. Something had happened, she knew it. And her parents knew what it was, if their moods were any indication. The speed limit became a suggestion, her foot bearing down on the gas pedal as she headed for her family home.

Her mother was in her office with her father when she got there, going over paperwork. Marianne was sitting in one of the chairs, head tipped back in thought.

"Where's Derek?" She demanded bluntly, ignoring etiquette entirely.

"Cassie-" Her mother started, expression stony. Probably because no one was supposed to barge into the office without permission, like she just had. (She was surprised to realize she genuinely didn't care, didn't even feel the typical knee-jerk resentment of the rule.)

"What. Happened?" She demanded, ignoring the red eyes that flashed a warning at her. The instinctual need to submit either vanished before she felt it or didn't register at all.

"Things are difficult right now," Her dad started, and Cassie turned to him. Her dad was usually more forthcoming than her mother was, at least with her. Of all her siblings, she was closest to her father, and normally, she was willing to at least give him the benefit of the doubt. But he wasn't speaking to her as her father, she could tell. He was speaking as her mother's Emissary. The distinction was important, she knew that, even if she barely recognized it. He _never_ spoke like that to her.

"What things? What does that have to do with Derek?"

"Derek said he needed some time away from Portland," Her mother said, tone gentling. Gentling, like she was breaking bad news. Like someone had died.

"Why?"

Her parents looked at each other, a silent communication passing between them. She hated that, hated that they could have a whole conversation without saying anything at all. Hated that she wasn't privy to whatever language it was that they had between them.

"There have been some recent developments that have thrown a few things into question. That includes Stiles' place here."

If she had been panicking before, she felt her whole world start to bottom out beneath her.

"What?"

"Circumstances-"

"Fuck circumstances!" She shouted, not wanting to hear her mother talking in that tone, like Stiles wasn't coming back, like maybe he was already gone. "Why wouldn't Stiles have a place here?"

"He does," Her father snapped defensively. She would have questioned it at any other time, but Stiles- Shit, Stiles and Derek both-Not here, not answering her calls-

"Stiles is currently evaluating his life due to new information. Derek is with him-"

That was all she needed. If she stayed to listen to her mother using her 'gentle alpha' voice on her, she'd break something.

"Cassie," Her dad tried as she turned and walked out of the office. She didn't stop, went straight to her room and slammed the door behind her.

She and Stiles knew almost everything about each other, including their passwords. It had started because she'd been stuck at work when he'd found out a band they both liked were playing at a local venue, and she'd given him the information for her cards to get tickets and make the confirmation. They'd done that a few times for varying things and she'd never been bothered by it. Stiles wouldn't abuse her trust. He'd had the same faith in her.

She had no idea if what she was doing was 'right'. But Stiles and Derek had become her world, were the only two people that let her just exist. No expectations, no bullshit, no judgment, nothing. And if checking through Stiles' online statement to see where he was was abusing his trust in her, she'd risk it. Because her parents weren't going to tell her anything and because-

Because she didn't want him to leave. If he left, Derek would too. She'd follow them, if she had to. She'd considered leaving before, but she'd never had anything to go to, anyone to go with. That had terrified her, that lack of support after her whole life as part of a big family and a pack. Nothing and no one to face the unknown with. But if they left, she'd make sure they knew they had to take her with them.

"Waldport?" She muttered. What the hell was in Waldport besides the Lazy Susan, whatever the hell that was. But he'd been there for a couple of days from the looks of it. Was hopefully still there.

She slammed her laptop shut and emptied the old BHSD duffel Stiles kept in her room for when he and Derek crashed there. For a second she reconsidered packing the clothes back in, then shrugged it off and started stuffing her own clothing into it.

Her dad was waiting for her in the living room where their Christmas tree was, presents already piled beneath it.

"Cassie," He started.

"No," She bit out, moving past him and grabbing her and Derek's presents to eachother and from Stiles.

"He needs space to think," Her father explained calmly.

"He needs to think about his place with the pack. Not with me. They're mine," She growled. Because they were, more than they were even her mother's. "No matter where they go. They're mine," She repeated, feeling desperation rising up inside of her. "I'm not leaving them. I don't care what mom says."

Her dad looked genuinely sympathetic and incredibly torn at the same time.

"And if they decide to leave?"

"I'm going with them." There was no hesitation at all, because if there was one indisputable truth in her life, it was that she loved her family and they loved her. But they didn't get her. She was too loud, too defiant, too scared of the 'supposed' potential she represented, too resentful of the expectations others placed on her. Derek and Stiles didn't care about any of it, didn't treat her differently, just let her be whatever she felt like being from moment to moment. They got her. She loved them, and she was sure they loved her back.

She hadn't been able to leave before. But she had a reason to, if they decided to go. Something important enough to face the unknown that had scared her into staying the first time.

"Alright," Her dad nodded, sitting down on the couch. "I'll tell your mother you left."

"And everything else?" She challenged.

"One step at a time, Cassie. They might choose to stay. I won't have that conversation unless I have to." Her dad looked tired, and she relaxed, feeling a flash of guilt for how hard she was being on him. She knew him well enough to know he wasn't having any easier of a time dealing with the situation than she was. It was in the sag of his shoulders, the tilt of his head.

"I'm sorry dad," She mumbled. "But I can't-"

"I understand. You know where they are, I assume?"

"Yeah."

"Drive safe. I love you."

"I love you too dad."

(Hours later, when Stiles explained what was happening, she ignored the pain at his suspicions of her. His story only confirmed that both he and Derek had earned the right to have those suspicions. Even if it hurt. They were hers, in ways that they weren't her mother's. And she was theirs. Even in the middle of a pack, they were their own. And if they had to leave that pack behind, the uncertainty of the future was easier to face, as long as they faced it together.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a lot of headcanons. I also have a lot of Deaton feels. Some include the urge to wrap him in a blanket and others include nailing his feet to the floor. And last night's episode makes me feel like Deaton is some sort of psychometrist. Which, if he can read whole areas, that would suck. Beacon Hills is a live action Supernatural Clue. 
> 
> I think Rick's position about Stiles is understandable. Stiles is sympathetic, but Rick didn't know him when he met him. He saw a mentally unstable addict that can alter the world around them. Rick's job is assessing potential threats. He's also a father. Empathy or not, he'd put his daughter and the well being of his pack before a kid he barely knows.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His son had grown more than just physically, and he'd missed so much of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Codas to chapter 14
> 
> Caroline's POV  
> John's POV

 

  
**Caroline's POV**  


Caroline stared at the unfamiliar number on her phone before accepting the call, holding it to her ear.

"Valdyr speaking," She answered in a firm voice, eyes still on her computer screen. The excel sheet covered in dates and times, with notations for ingredients reminded her that she needed to go to the cellar and check the latest batch of mead she'd started fermenting. The last batch had been a little too dry, even with the blueberries.

"Hello, Mrs. Valdyr," An unfamiliar voice started. "This is John Stilinski, I'm Stiles' father."

Any thoughts involving mead and the oatmeal stout she'd been thinking about flew out of her head as she focused on the voice coming through the phone, greeting her like a parent calling in to a principals office. She'd been expecting a call, but not to her. Stiles, even Rick, maybe. But not to her.

Stiles was doing alright, although he certainly wasn't okay. And she knew, from what she had gathered from her husband and daughter, that the sheriff had a major hand in the depression that seemed to cling to Stiles no matter what he was doing.

"Please, call me Caroline," She said, trying to keep the chill from her voice. It was only a moderately successful effort. "May I ask why you're calling?" Me, she added silently. Because Stiles was in the workshop with Rick, and she'd know if the boy had finally gotten a call from his father. Everyone would know.

"I tried speaking to Alan Deaton, the local uh-"

"Emissary," She supplied, not without a hint of rancor. Her desk still had a crack running down the length of it from the last time he'd called, inquiring after Stiles and his position with the pack. It hadn't been a 'polite' conversation. All the better that Rick hadn't been present for it.

"Yeah. He gave me your number."

There was a long pause, one that was clearly uncomfortable. And she was tempted to let it stretch on. But it wouldn't solve anything, and she couldn't, wouldn't, punish Stiles, not if his father was finally reaching out.

"I assume you're inquiring about my pack and Stiles' place within it," She finally said, forcing herself to relax into her chair, as if that would affect her voice and alter her state of mind. It didn't, but it couldn't hurt to try. Maybe if her body believed it, she wouldn't sound like she wanted to rip the man's head off.

"Something like that," The sheriff agreed slowly. Cautiously.

'I am a stranger,' She reminded herself. 'He doesn't know me or my intentions. He doesn't know my pack.'

Best to be direct then. He would appreciate transparency, in the long run.

"Mr. Stilinski, when I first met Stiles, he was in very bad shape. Do not mistake this for exaggeration, he was close to killing himself, though his methods were slow and less direct than others. A member of my pack had taken him in and was helping him. I in turn offered my help."

If it weren't for checking the screen of her phone, she might have thought he'd hung up on her.

"Excuse me, I'm not sure I understand what you're trying to tell me."

Caroline tried to remember that she was speaking to a sheriff, a man that had a job protecting people, that he probably hadn't seen, and had no reason to trust her. It was only because she was an alpha, because she had to be concerned for the entirety of the pack, that she understood how things at home could slip, how easy it was to miss something. God only knew how difficult it had been with her daughters, still was, at times. And Stiles was smart, with a guilt complex that ran as deep as Derek's. Stiles would have hidden it from his father, from anyone he didn't want to worry or hurt. It was still a surprise, in some ways, that he'd even allowed Derek to help, to find out that there was something wrong.

"Your son was attempting to cope with severe trauma, Mr. Stilinski. Given what occurred in Beacon Hills, I don't think either of us can be surprised. There were circumstances that made him feel isolated, and unable to reach out. I can't offer more than that without breaking confidence." Which was a lie. If someone said that to her about something concerning her daughters, she would tear them apart. Probably literally. But Stiles needed to tell his father the truth, not her. She doubted the sheriff would believe her anyway.

"Stiles has been coping with what he feels is the loss of his family. But only just. I think perhaps anything else you wish to discuss should be with him, face to face."

"I-"

"I know he wants to see you," She interrupted quickly, afraid of refusal. "He misses you. Just because he's here doesn't mean we are replacements for his father. Someone he needs, especially right now. We care about him, but we are not you," She stressed. Pack could replace many things, but it could not replace that. Especially not when it was evident to anyone that met him how much Stiles loved his father.

She closed her eyes, listened to the silence on the other end of the phone.

"Thank you, Mrs. Valdyr," The sheriff finally said, voice quiet.

"It's not a problem. I know you have no reason to believe me, but I do want what's best for Stiles. And you are part of that. Perhaps more than you realize."

"Thank you, good evening."

She murmured a polite goodbye into the phone and listened for the disconnect before setting it back on the desk. She stared at it pensively, wondering if she had said the right things, worded everything well enough to spur a visit from the sheriff.

Her personal misgivings aside, she understood how the situation had occurred, why it had followed the path it had. It was only because she was an alpha, because she had to maintain a degree of distance, that she knew why the man was so startled, so angry at the perceived defection of his son. She only hoped that at least the sheriff would have the good sense to try and understand. Given the son he raised, she didn't doubt that he would. She just hoped it was sooner rather than later. Stiles was drifting more and more, almost aimless despite his fervent devotion to his studies, and it worried her as much as she saw it worrying the others.

Derek was trying his best to be there, had even come to her asking what to do (a notable event in itself). But both of them knew he couldn't fill that void, and there hadn't been any real answers to give him. It was frustrating, to be so close to a problem and have no solution, to not have the option of forcing the issue, as much as she wanted to. Somehow she doubted Stiles would appreciate it, even if her heart was in the right place. Even this could be seen as a violation of trust, a trust he needed, now more than ever.

She was intimately aware that an alpha could not replace a parent. Even if she could, Stiles loved his parents too fervently to allow anyone to replace them, and she had no desire to impinge on that. But she could offer him family, solidarity. Hopefully it would be enough.

* * *

 

**  
John's POV  
**

John saw Scott's car in the driveway when he turned the corner and briefly considered turning back. Everything was still too close to the surface, too raw for him to handle properly.

When he realized there probably was no proper way to handle the situation, that sooner or later he was going to have to face Scott, he continued until he was parked and got out, stretching. Driving for hours was par for the course as a sheriff, but eight was pushing it. He hated to think he was getting old. Daily reminders from his knees didn't help.

Scott and Melissa both were waiting inside, sitting in the living room quietly. He didn't need his police instincts to know they'd been discussing him and his trip to Portland. Scott had been antsy since he'd announced his intentions, and Melissa had been trying her best to be supportive of both her son and husband, not an easy task at the best of times.

"I take it we're going to have a talk," He said, taking a seat in his favorite chair. It had been one of the few things he'd moved from the old house, and he took comfort in it, allowed himself to remember finding Stiles curled up in it after he'd been out patrolling at night, growing from being able to curl up into it to hanging over the arms. How he'd allowed himself to forget that, he didn't know.

John knew he'd forgotten too much. Like how his son had always put him first, no matter how backwards it had seemed. Stiles had always tried to do the best he could for him.

"How is he doing?" Melissa asked carefully. John felt for his wife. The past several months hadn't been easy on her. She blamed herself, in some ways, for Stiles' supposed defection. All of them circled back to Stiles' mother, to her lack of a relationship with him. She'd asked, time and again, if it was partly her fault that Stiles had fled Beacon Hills. He'd never thought it was the case, but it was good to know she wasn't, that he could honestly tell her she'd never been a factor.

The truth, however-He didn't know how well she would take it.

"He's doing good," John answered honestly. "I met the Valdyrs. They're good people, good for Stiles," He added, knowing it was passive aggressive but unable to stop himself. Scott sat there, looking like he had every right in the world to be angry, to feel betrayed. And if it had been anyone else, John knew he could have looked at the situation objectively. But it was Stiles, his son, and he knew the memories Stiles had forced himself to relive would be seared into his brain as long as he drew breath.

"You didn't try to tell him to come back?" Scott demanded.

"Why would I do that?"

"Because he'll listen to you," Scott started, and John ground his teeth together and forced his words out calmly.

"I know that. But why would I ask him to come back here?" If he felt badly about the look his wife was giving him, the sensation was lost under the smothering blanket of fury that Scott's incredulity provoked.

"Because he belongs here," Scott declared, as if it was only obvious, as if it was the only real answer. And John thought about the family he'd met, the parents that had taken care of Stiles when he hadn't even known there had been a problem. He remembered Stiles sniping with Cassie like she was the sister he'd never had, and finding his son asleep, on top of Derek Hale of all people, looking for all the world like he was resting peacefully. Something that apparently didn't come easily to him. He thought about the dinners and seeing an apartment filled with handcrafted furniture, how proud Stiles was of the people in his life, of the house he had helped build. How proud they were of him, in turn, how he seemed oblivious to their pride, didn't need constant validation like he once had. His son had grown more than just physically, and he'd missed so much of it.

"He doesn't belong here. He hasn't since the sacrifice. Maybe even before that."

"John," Melissa started even as Scott jumped to his feet, anger bleeding into his movements and making them jerky, uncoordinated.

"Stiles belongs here, he's my friend. He's my brother."

"Doesn't seem that way to me," John snapped, losing his temper. The token attempt to control it would have to be appreciated, at least. "A friend would be happy for him. A friend would have been aware of his problems. A friend would have said something, would have tried to help him. A friend would have told someone, like a responsible adult." He couldn't say the word brother. He couldn't, knew he would choke on it, spit it out like nails, and that word was sacred, had followed him from enlistment and into the academy.

"What problems?" Scott demanded.

"Like the two murderers you brought into my home," John reminded him, voice sharp. "Who never faced justice and instead got to finish out high school in place of the two teenagers they killed."

"But that was because of Deucalion," Scott started, panic lighting his features. Panic and guilt. John recognized that look from the station, had seen it too many times on too many faces.

"I don't give a good goddamn why they did it, Scott. They killed innocent kids and never faced the consequences. Instead, my son paid for it, lying to me just to cover your ass, like he always has. He was still trying to keep me in the dark last January, when you were telling me that he left because he wanted to be a goddamn emissary so bad. Think about that. He was still protecting you and your pack while you were making him out to be some sort of selfish brat," John bit out, ignoring the shock on Melissa's face.

"The one time he tried to set things right you came to me and intentionally mislead me about the murderers identities. You sold out your best friend, your _brother_ , and sabotaged everything he was trying to do, undermined his trust in you. And as if I don't make enough concessions for the pack, you've betrayed me and all of the values I live by from day _one_."

"Kali ordered them to do it." It was a desperate attempt at mending the situation. Even knowing what an anchor was, knowing how necessary it was for a werewolf, for an alpha, John couldn't understand how Scott could be willing to overlook what had been done, why he was trying so hard to make excuses for the twins and himself.

"That is bullshit," He snarled, surprised at how bitter he felt, how disappointed he was in Scott. "They decided to change sides for their teenage crushes, but they couldn't when they were being told to kill some poor kid?"

"It wasn't that simple!"

He felt a brief flash of envy, because maybe, maybe his son had been onto something. Demolition therapy. It sounded like a fantastic way to spend his evening.

"Maybe not at that moment, but what about after, Scott? Those kids deserved a chance for justice. Their families deserved answers. Jesus, I saw him during some of his nightmares. I remember what he used to look like, and he never said a word to me because you told him it was over and done with. Why the hell would I tell Stiles to come back to that, huh? My son was loyal to you, and look what it got him," He finished, his voice thundering through the room and echoing deeper into the house.

Scott opened his mouth and snapped it shut before stalking out of the room. The front door slammed and the sound of a car peeling out of the driveway drifted in past the windows. John sat back down, couldn't even remember getting up, and scrubbed his face.

"John-" Melissa started.

"He has scars," John started, remembering the myriad pale, hypertrophic lines crisscrossing his sons ribs. Scars Stiles had begged him not to mention to anyone. White and pink, even years healed over it was easy to tell they'd needed better care than a desperate seventeen year old could have applied. And he'd be stuck with them for the rest of his life, constant reminders. "He was cutting himself, Melissa. He intentionally hurt himself. And those two bastards went to school and on dates and played lacrosse like-" He couldn't continue, that spiral of rage threatening to lead him down a path he couldn't afford to let himself follow. There were rules, and he'd adhered to them the best he could. Concessions had been made because the law had never made mention of werewolves or druids or god-only-knew-what, but there were lines he wouldn't cross, some things too sacred to destroy, and his faith in the law was one of those few, precious things.

"I knew they'd been part of the alpha pack, but I didn't know they'd killed Erica and Boyd," Melissa admitted, sounding ashamed, as if she were somehow at fault for not seeing it. But he hadn't either. He'd only known that his son was in rough shape, and he'd tried to be there for him. After everything that had happened, he'd interpreted the withdrawal, the quiet, as PTSD, something he knew about, something he could handle. But even then Stiles had been beyond his help.

"He went to Derek," John finally said. Not to him, though he could almost understand why. (Full understanding would always be beyond him, he knew.) But Derek-Derek had been a good choice, even if at one point he would have laughed at the idea before pistol whipping whatever moron had suggested it.

"Derek Hale?" Melissa asked, bewilderment turning the name into a question. John nodded, tired and close to breaking down, thinking about what Stiles had told him, about how Stiles had tried not to cry, couldn't even look at him when he'd admitted to abusing his adderall and drinking just to ease what little sleep his body had forced on him. Forced, like it was a punishment.

He'd had trouble sleeping, knew he'd resorted to the bottle more than once just to ease himself into it. He worked in law enforcement and even before the Darach and werewolves he'd seen things, even been forced to do things that had made sleep difficult or uninviting. But Stiles had been a kid. He shouldn't have had those worries. Shouldn't, but had.

"Stiles doesn't want the pack to know. Can't say I blame him," He sighed. "He helped him through it. Christ Melissa," John tried, feeling the tears burning his eyes when he thought about how completely he'd failed his son. "I talked to the Valdyrs. Caroline said Stiles could have died if he'd kept it up much longer. And I never would have known why. No one-They never would have told me. I could have lost him-" He struggled to breathe, reminded himself that Stiles was still alive, that he hadn't killed himself, that he still had his son.

The tears were escaping and he made no effort to stop them. Years of frustration and anger, months of thinking he was losing his son to another family swelled from behind the dam he'd tried to keep them behind and crashed down, a heavy, solid weight.

"I yelled at him for leaving. I accused him of abandoning us," He whispered, the words pulled from inside of him like barbed wire, ripping him apart. That had been his biggest mistake. He hadn't listened, again, when it had counted the most. He'd just ignored what Stiles had tried to tell him. It didn't matter that he'd been afraid, or hurt that he'd been lied to again. He hadn't listened, and he'd hurt Stiles when he'd needed someone. _He'd sent him away_.

"Is he happy now?" Melissa asked quietly, coming over to snuggle into the armchair, half sitting on him and wrapping an arm around his neck, offering what little comfort she could.

"Yes," John nodded. He could tell Stiles was happy, that Stiles fit in there, for all that he was still different from the werewolves. And maybe it wasn't perfect, but if it spared his son the agony he'd endured, he didn't want him to leave that, didn't care if it made anyone hate him, if it caused problems with Scott or even Melissa. Stiles was better there, wasn't hurting himself or seeing the faces of people that had tortured and killed his friends, forced to bite his tongue at every turn. And more than anything else, that was what mattered. Stiles was alive and happy. He was better.

"We'll figure it out," Melissa promised. John didn't tell her he didn't think there was any figuring it out, that Scott would have to sort out his own feelings, get over the rejection he felt and accept that his choices had been a huge part of why Stiles had left. Even knowing Deaton might have been helping to guide his actions didn't make it any better, because Scott had known what the right choice was, should have made the decision to give the dead justice instead of hiding the truth. And he sure as hell should have remembered to stand by Stiles.

(That didn't stop him from finding the vet in his office and making him aware there would never be trust between them again. He followed the declaration up with a right hook that he knew, from an officer's perspective, he should have been ashamed of. However, logic and Stiles hadn't occupied the same sentence since Claudia had died. Why start now?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you don't like Papa Stilinski we can't be friends. That is all.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Only after hours on the road did he wonder if Stiles had felt that way, locked in a hell of friendly faces and loneliness.
> 
> The irony wasn't lost on him, the twists and turns the words had taken, slipping and sliding between hallow and profaned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Codas to chapter 15
> 
> Trigger Warnings: References to past self harm, angst (so much angst), references to blood and ritual cutting
> 
> Order:  
> Scott's POV  
> Derek's POV

****  
Scott's POV  
  


Scott stared at the road, glaring at the 'Welcome to Beacon Hills' sign that greeted them. Despite the cheeriness of it, of the joy he usually felt when returning to his own territory, it looked almost threatening. Ugly in a way it had never been before.

At fifteen, he'd become a werewolf. For all of the things he'd gained, he hadn't wanted everything else. The danger, the constant sensory overload, the life altering choices he'd been forced to make. It had been too much for a fifteen year old. But he'd adjusted.

At sixteen, he'd done things, things he still wasn't proud of, would never be proud of. He'd watched helplessly as the girl he'd loved turned into something cold and terrifying, worrying and absolutely haunting in all the worst ways, his mother had looked at him like he was a monster, and he'd watched his world fall apart. He'd watched someone murdered and done nothing to stop it, then made a deal with the murderer, getting people he loved hurt. He'd betrayed people that had trusted him, broken faith and forced them to do things that he'd known was wrong. Even with all of his justifications, he'd never completely shaken the guilt. He'd learned to adjust to that too.

At seventeen he'd died and come back, a choice he still wouldn't change if it meant the difference between his mother living or dying. He'd become an alpha, a title he hadn't wanted specifically because of the power and responsibility it had entailed, because of what it had done to every alpha he'd ever met.

Even if it had been entirely because he'd made choices and stuck by them-It didn't mean much, not really. When others reminded him of the fact, he always had to hold back a laugh, even if he couldn't stem the tide of bitterness that always accompanied it. Because he'd risen to power by virtue of his will. Will didn't mean anything except that he was stubborn. No one ever thought about intent, or that his 'resolve' (another nicer, prettier word for stubbornness) often made everything worse before someone reminded him that his morals would get them all killed, or caught, or tortured.

For all of the flack he got for his idealism, no one ever seemed to question why he clung to it so determinedly.

Scott knew a lot of things, knew-He knew about the world, knew about people. More than anyone he understood what grief and fear could drive a person to do, how power could tempt someone into giving up that last shred of humanity. In spite of that understanding or because of it, he'd always tried to do the right thing. Always. And sometimes it blew up in his face, he knew that. Mistakes haunted him, because as much as he'd tried to be good, to be a hero or an alpha, he'd screwed up, his black and white morality whispering 'for the greater good'. He knew that his actions, so right at the time, couldn't stand up in the face of his own ideals.

That's why he'd let Stiles go without any resistance, back when they'd still been teenagers. It was why he'd given him space, even though he'd needed him, had howled inside, spent nights in a metaphorical corner with his back against the wall wondering when he'd come back. Stiles had needed it, and he'd needed for Stiles to be okay. He'd understood that, accepted it even though he'd hated feeling so helpless, so ineffectual when it came to supporting his brother. The animosity between Stiles and the twins, the complete disengagement from the pack, the quiet condemnation, the anger, he'd known it was there and had tried to explain why he'd let Deucalion go, why he'd given the twins a chance. Because back then, and even now, he was just _tired_. So goddamn tired of bloodshed and death. He'd needed to forgive then, for his own sake as much as everyone else's. If he'd allowed himself to cling to that distrust, to the rage and encompassing hatred, he'd have broken in half and the dark thing inside of him would have crawled out and destroyed everything without a second thought. He'd needed for it to be over. That it could only have been one way or another hadn't factored because the Other had never been a viable option. He'd have gone to Chris and asked to be put down first.

Scott had hoped that time and distance would help Stiles get better, because he hadn't been able to do anything. He'd trusted that Stiles would come back, because at the end of the day, Stiles was his best friend, had been his brother long before their parents had gotten married. Stiles had been there from day one, when he'd been a nobody, and held fast even when his world was falling apart, helping Scott keep all the pieces of his own together. It was selfish, Scott knew, that he'd taken Stiles' return for granted. But Stiles had been one of the pillars that held up his world, more solid and stable than anyone else, even his mother. His faith in his brother had been absolute, to the point that it had been unquestioned and thoughtless, just there, as much a part of him as his own name. It had been another mistake to never show him that. Scott knew that now too.

Seeing Stiles with Derek, with Cassie, had hurt and knocked him so far off balance it would have been laughable at any other time. Because they had been protecting Stiles, declaring their claim and defending Stiles from him. They'd genuinely thought he might hurt him. Scott knew he'd be lying if he said it hadn't been tempting. Stiles had lied to him, hidden things from him. Even the apology, the admission of how wrong he'd been hadn't helped, couldn't change that he'd done it, that it had left him bewildered and feeling more alone than he could ever remember feeling. (Only after hours on the road did he wonder if Stiles had felt that way, locked in a hell of friendly faces and loneliness.)

The steadiest, most trusted support of his world had shattered, and he was still listing from it, wasn't sure if he'd ever stop. It hadn't been real until he'd seen Stiles sitting between the two werewolves, comfortable in a way Scott couldn't remember him being for years. Not with him, not since he'd become an alpha. It had hurt so goddamn much, to see that, to know that Derek had taken his place. Disorienting too, to know the world had changed so drastically and he'd never even noticed or guessed. Derek Hale and Stiles were friends, were close. Derek, who he'd thought he'd forgiven years ago. (He knew better than to think the sensation of hatred, burning and quick, was real. It was resentment, and as much as he knew it wasn't really hatred, he knew Derek didn't deserve it.)

Stiles had been with Derek the whole time, had gone to Derek for help instead of him. Stiles had trusted Derek with everything. The scars on his ribs- Scott bit back a whimper, thinking about Stiles cutting himself. He'd never even guessed at it, not even when Derek had shown up on his doorstep, telling him that Stiles was in bad shape, that he was on the verge of collapse. Even then he hadn't seen how deep the problems had gone. But Derek had. He'd seen it and stood up to an alpha, forced him to listen. Except he hadn't listened at all, just nodded dumbly at the words.

Scott hated the feeling that he'd earned that, that he deserved the cosmic slap to the face. Hating it didn't banish it though, maybe only reinforced it.

When he walked into his house, he saw the others gathered and shook his head. He wasn't up to dealing with the pitying looks, knew that the others were either mentally saying 'I told you so' or thanking whatever that Stiles hadn't deigned to return. He told them to do whatever and walked to his room, the room that smelled like himself and Allison and Issac. Neither of them had wanted him to see Stiles, and he understood why, but he couldn't really forgive them for it, for trying to talk him out of going by declaring betrayals that hadn't hurt them personally. They didn't understand, couldn't. Never would. But they bled anger on his behalf, and before it had been gratifying, sustaining. Now-

It felt sanctimonious and hypocritical. Nothing but blind self-righteousness.

When Lydia began telling everyone about Derek, he tried to shut everything out, from the angry noise Allison made to Issac's shocked, drawn in breath and Ethan's low growl.

Scott was more than aware he'd screwed up, but for all that he did know, for everything he'd been forced to learn, words still weren't his strong suit. When he'd tried to convey how much he needed his brother, he'd hopelessly bungled it, turned it into something it wasn't and lost his temper. Scott couldn't even remember the last time he'd allowed himself to do that. The wedding sprang to mind, and he tried to shove those memories away. That guilt was still there, for all that he and Issac and Allison were together now. Another screw up because he'd been scared.

He did need Stiles in his life. Stiles was important, had always been important. Stiles was his brother, and hearing him say that he wasn't needed-

Somewhere in that statement, Scott had heard 'I don't need you'.

He didn't know where to begin to start, whether he was breaking or falling or angry. It was impossible to process, sitting on top of memories and plans he'd clung to like dogma. Just-Unfathomable. Incomprehensible. Like the vitriol that had spewed out of Stiles' mouth, like the pure anger that had burned in his eyes when he'd started talking in Russian, like the scars littering his ribs. Scott didn't know how to handle any of it. Because as much as Stiles' lies hurt, as much as he wanted to be angry, he couldn't blame Stiles for leaving, not really. Not anymore.

When he heard Issac bite out that he didn't want the pack in Beacon Hills, he almost pushed himself out of bed. The others agreeing stole his strength, felt like a weight bearing down on him. He couldn't face them, couldn't deal with arguing the point when he knew they would all overrule him. Something sharp and brittle was already cracking, he could feel it, and their faces, the unavoidable argument that would occur would completely shatter him, he knew that. Everything he'd tried to avoid would come out, the hatred and anger, the accusations he wanted to throw at people that may or may not have deserved it. Everything he'd said was forgiven didn't feel like it was anymore, not if it meant he lost Stiles. And at the same time, Stiles needed Portland. He needed-

Stiles needed Derek and that pack. He didn't need Beacon Hills or him.

When he heard Allison call a vote his heart stopped and he held his breath, praying for the anything but the inevitable. He almost wished he hadn't declared the pack a democracy. On some level he understood that Allison and Issac were acting on what they thought were his best interests. He knew that. It didn't make it easier to accept that they were deliberately going behind his back and overriding him.

When he heard Lydia say she'd call the Valdyr pack to inform them, he bit the inside if his cheek and tasted blood. The comforter beneath his hands ripped. Scott made no attempt to brush away the tears as he buried his face in a pillow and tried to contain all of the sounds trying to claw their way outside of his chest.

Of everything he felt guilty for, of all the choices he'd made, losing Stiles would always be the one thing he'd never adapt to.

* * *

****  
Derek's POV  
  


Derek listened, the words he'd once spoken in confidence pouring into the clearing and echoing. It wrenched something in his chest, to hear Stiles use his former anchor to create and oath to the pack, to give Caroline his allegiance.

He didn't know if it was pride, that he'd somehow influenced it, that he'd had that much of an impact (positive, no less), or pain because something (some _one_ ) had become more important. The irony wasn't lost on him, the twists and turns the words had taken, slipping and sliding between hallow and profaned. He just wondered if Stiles knew, if he'd guessed the truth. Somehow, he doubted it. For all that Stiles seemed aware of his position in the pack hierarchy, he was oblivious to how important he was. Derek had spent weeks thinking the whole thing, the title and oaths included, superfluous. Stiles had been pack for what seemed like years. But standing outside the clearing, what he'd considered redundant took on weight, transformed into ritual. (He should have known Stiles would somehow change things, ignore the standards and create something new.)

The words moved and settled in him, in the world, breathing like living things. Derek had felt magic, was still cautious of that sensation despite Stiles' involvement with it, but this felt like an offering, something made not just to Caroline, but to him too. As a beta, he had no right to expect it, even thinking it assumed too much. But it had been his offering once, to help Stiles understand, maybe anchors, maybe him, in retrospect he wasn't sure. It drifted below his skin, felt suspiciously like Stiles had somehow given it back, changed it into something _more_.

The scent and taste of sweet and copper flooded his nose and mouth, pricked at his consciousness. Instinct crashed against instinct. He should not, could not interfere, didn't want to, not really. But for a moment he considered moving, tasting. Once, it could have been him accepting, making a vow he'd forgotten could be made.

He'd lost that right, and his life had been better for it. Stiles' life was better for it. In the end, that was all that mattered.

They'd come so far. Far and to places he'd never thought to consider, much less dared to hope for.

As if sensing where his thoughts had gone, or seeking quiet support, or even sharing excitement, Cassie's fingers slipped into his. The world around him tipped up, on the cusp of something. Waiting, waiting. Everything felt on the edge of anticipation, the moon quickening beneath his skin.

Caroline's howl swelled, shattered the bubble of quiet. The exhale of the earth was lost in a chorus of howls. He tipped his head back, allowed himself to revel, because they had paid with so much, and this was their reward. Finally. The song was communion, felt like reverence and fierce joy. It was no more a starting point than the day before had been or the next morning would be, but it marked a change, fixed and for once, welcome. A natural progression.

The sound abated, the magic fading from the clearing like a wind dying. As if in silent agreement, the wolves began to leave, moving for the forest or the barn. Stiles came to them, and Cassie's fingers slipped free.

He watched, at peace (feeling almost foreign to himself because of it), as Cassie launched herself at Stiles. Whimpered fears escaped, soothed by promises. Stiles was, for perhaps the first time in his life (in Derek's memory at least) completely still, steady in a way that spoke to the future, of the person he would become. When Cassie slipped down, her eyes were bright even in the dim light of the moon.

Embraces were still rare, still strange to him. But it felt-Necessary, maybe, to actually hold Stiles. Even beneath his own surprise and Stiles', there was no awkwardness. Stiles' heart beat out a rapid tattoo, excitement and joy sweetening his scent, making the blood taste that lingered in his mouth warmer, richer.

"You're mine, and I'm yours."

Derek felt his body respond, cling more tightly for a fraction of a second because it felt like more than an oath, became a promise that meant more than what had been said and heard in front of the pack. Stiles had affirmed his loyalty to Caroline, but with a simple phrase he'd given (and taken) something infinitely more important.

He had no illusions, knew that he'd made too many mistakes to deserve what had been offered. But he had it anyway, and even if he was undeserving, he was going to hold fast to it, would try to prove that maybe he could be worth it someday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t hate Scott. I really, really don’t. I actually feel bad for him, because Jesus H Christ what a _shit_ position to be in, especially as a teenager. Being responsible for other people is bad enough, but add in the ability to kill people if you lose your shit (which, yeah humans can do, but canonically werewolves are a lot more prone to it) and the effects of the nemeton on top of the typical PTSD and his dad showing up? Yeah, no. I don’t hate Scott, even if the story demonizes him. It does that because Stiles felt betrayed by Scott, just like Scott feels betrayed by Stiles. 
> 
> I like writing quasi incoherent Derek due to full moon madness. It's a thing. Also, even though Derek knows in his heart of hearts that he was an awful alpha, he'd probably still wonder, especially seeing someone he cares about oathing to another alpha. Stiles _can't_ submit, since he'll be in a position that requires him to be Caroline's equal. I think, given those facts, what he said hit Derek a lot harder than what he said to Caroline. And for once, it's not a misunderstanding! Yay! No confusion or angst will res-Oh, nevermind, that's a lie. *insert appropriately themed melody here*


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He tilted his head at Caroline, still not entirely sure it wasn't some sort of cruel trick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Codas to Chapter 16
> 
> Trigger Warnings: off screen death of minor characters, drinking, canon typical (thought?) violence, claudia stilinski thoughts, awkward hugging, miles has misconceptions about what counts as 'friendly fire', derek responds poorly to flirting
> 
> Order  
> Derek POV (x2)  
> John's POV  
> Derek's POV

  
**Derek POV**  
  


Before Stiles and Cassie had left, he'd never thought about processors, motherboards, sound cards or battery capacity. He'd never had a reason to, because everyone he cared to talk to (or, more honestly, anyone that wanted to talk to him) was part of his day to day life, either living with him or easily contacted by cell phone. His laptop was decent. Functional. He was not the sort of person that needed a fancy bells and whistles itunes video editing Mac Whatever.

His Asus had been just fine. More than adequate for his needs.

Except when the video chat had fragged and blacked out, and Stiles and Cassie's voices had stuttered and halted like the connection was bad before his laptop has started to smell a little like burning plastic. Which, his nose was sensitive, so it probably hadn't been a sign of the thing dying on him, but burning anything was-Not something he wanted to smell.

So he'd gone to Best Buy, and he'd let an overly cheerful employee figure out what laptop he needed.

(He wasn't computer illiterate. He just really didn't care what it did as long as it was what he needed.)

Now he owned a laptop that looked a lot like Stiles' probably had, before the stickers and sharpie had covered every available inch. On the upside, his drafting programs worked more smoothly. It had only cost him fifteen hundred dollars (fine, whatever) and two hours in the presence of someone that had flirted (exasperating) tried to give him their number (dead via floor model paper shredder) and ultimately cried when he'd demanded to see a manager (disturbing). The vow to begin shopping online felt like an inspired bonus.

Skype, another new 'thing' in his life, was probably the only thing keeping him sane, because neither his nor Stiles and Cassie's cell phone plans had taken Norwegian vacations into account. Five thousand miles of distance made him understandably edgy. Add another pack into the mix and he was sure he was exhibiting remarkable restraint by not taking the first flight out of PDX. (Miles had threatened him with Grievous Bodily Harm if he thought of jumping ship during the Christmas rush. The use of a rip saw had been visually implied.)

To be completely fair, skype was-It was nice. He could understand the appeal. Even if he couldn't scent his packmates, he could hear them, and even see them. It was enough. Had to be enough. And seeing them, hearing their voices, knowing they were happy, eased the knot of panic in his chest and made it easier to remember that they weren't _gone_. They were just away, and they would be back.

Normally, he was greeted with the same sort of smile that Stiles had once reserved especially for curly fries and Lydia Martin. On good days, he got both Stiles and Cassie on the screen, laying squished together on the bed, blankets piled over them like a cave they would retreat into when they finally passed out. The best days were when they fell asleep, the screens still on and sounds transmitting thousands of miles across the Atlantic.

He liked to sketch out designs, listening to the faint sounds of quiet snuffling and sleep talking. (Once, he'd gotten lucky and they'd woken as he was getting ready to go to bed. Their morning routine had sounded in his ears as he'd curled up in Stiles' bed, easing him into sleep.)

Which was why he felt something go cold at the sight of both of them waiting, solemn faced. The camera wasn't as close as it normally was, and they were sitting in chairs, backs stiff and unyielding.

"Hey," Stiles greeted, subdued. Cassie didn't speak at all.

"Hey."

The silence was unbearable, made all the more so because he wanted to reach out and touch, to reassure them, do something, anything to lessen the weight of what was bearing down on them.

"What's wrong?" Because something had to be wrong. Three nights ago Stiles had been excited about learning a new defensive ward that was taking forever to prepare. He'd smiled despite complaining of pain in his wrists and arms. He'd been happy, content even as he'd ranted.

"My dad-" Stiles started. Derek tensed, brow furrowing. He'd spoken to John the day before. They were still working on the workshop together. John had been fine.

"Is he okay?" So much could happen in twenty four hours.

"Yeah," Stiles said, his voice hitching. "Dad's fine. Nothing's wrong there. He just-He got a call from Danny. I don't know if you remember Danny at all."

"Mahealani. Hacker." Supposed good guy, but fairly generic with a predisposition to hang out with first rate assholes. Derek remembered enough to know that he hadn't wanted anything to do with him after. After finding out he was fucking one of the wolves that had helped kill Boyd, or after he'd been complicit in exiling Stiles, it didn't matter. Why the hell was he calling John? The sheriff had been sure they'd left Beacon Hills.

Stiles nodded, and even through the camera it looked wooden. "He was with Ethan and Aiden, at Berkeley. Someone uh-Someone killed Aiden. And Ethan, he died too. Their weird connection thing."

For a minute, he thought the heat blooming on his face was anger. It almost felt like it, so easily mislabeled because it was so quick, so staggering. He wasn't sure he'd ever felt anything hit that fast that wasn't rage.

Except it wasn't. He felt light and dangerously fragile, the heat of his face the first harbinger of what he distantly realized were tears.

Relief. The sensation was relief.

He blinked, the sting of salt in his eyes ignored, pushed back. Logic descended, demanded proof before allowing the luxury of relief.

"Is-Did John see any evidence?" Because it would be easy, so easy to mislead, to manipulate and lie. Danny was a hacker and even years later he didn't trust the twins motivations. The sheer number of possibilities was overwhelming, starting with them trying to take control of Beacon Hills.

"Yeah, dad has the official reports. We're pretty sure it was a wolf. Dad doesn't have any contacts in that area, so we don't know if it was a territory dispute or something personal. It was in the papers too."

Something uncoiled from around his heart, and he felt it beat again. Police reports weren't enough, could easily be faked. Local news wouldn't report something that hadn't happened though.

"I'm sorry," Stiles said, his voice barely filtering through the speakers. Derek looked up, wished again he could touch because Stiles looked so tired, so lost. Five thousand miles and he just wished he could curl around him, remind him that he was safe.

"Why?"

"Because-I know it's not easy. Talking about them."

Their past, one they rarely talked about anymore. It was just some vague, distanced thing they'd managed to outrun. Except when they dreamed, memories slipping past the sleep thorns, or when Stiles took off his shirt, or when he went back to that place and Derek was left behind to worry and wait. (It lurked, but it hadn't felt so tangible for so long.)

He wanted to say it was okay, because now-Now Stiles could go back (exiled or not) and Derek-He wouldn't be so afraid. He'd still worry, of course, because Beacon Hills stole from him like the land itself had a vendetta. But maybe now he wouldn't dream of the the twins hunting Stiles, toying with him, treating him like prey. He wouldn't hold his breath and wait for the hammer to drop.

The spark he'd always imagined as Boyd, that felt solid and steady, quickened in his blood like a shot of adrenaline.

Some part of him hoped, viciously, that it had been a hard death. That there had been suffering involved, that it had been drawn out and brutal. He hoped that they'd felt terror, that they'd felt powerless and weak. Perhaps he hadn't changed so much, hadn't healed right. Even though he understood why the desire was wrong it existed, poison seeping from old wounds that had never done more than scab over.

They had taken from him, and though he'd never forgiven, he hadn't sought vengeance. He'd run, needing to be more than a creature of violence. For all that, he still felt cheated, as if his lack of involvement had left his sense of justice only half satisfied.

"Derek?" Stiles' voice echoed through the speakers.

When he blinked, he realized that Stiles was alone. Cassie had gone elsewhere, and he hadn't even noticed.

"Yeah," He choked out. "I'm still here."

"Are you-Shit. I know you're not okay. But do you need-" Stiles stopped, a hand running through his hair and making it stick up in different directions.

Derek needed him there, needed tactile assurance, needed to reassure him that he was there and not going anywhere, not leaving him, he needed-But couldn't have. So it was best not to think about it to begin with.

"How are you doing?" He asked, perhaps a little too abruptly.

Stiles nodded vacantly and then shook his head, like he'd been ready for a lie and then remembered how unproductive it would be to try. Even if Derek couldn't sense a heartbeat over the internet, he knew Stiles.

"I'm just-Tired, I guess? Not physically, but like-I dunno. Mentally. Like I don't have to watch over my shoulder anymore. It's just-Done."

Derek nodded. _Done._ The finality of the word only emphasized that the end itself felt incomplete and that there was nothing that could alter it.

"And I'm, like this part of me is happy." The confession was costing him, and Derek didn't know if he should nod to convey how completely he empathized with that part. Somehow, he doubted it would do Stiles any good.

"Like, I-I never trusted them, obviously. And I-This little voice in my head is saying 'good, they're fucking dead, couldn't have happened to a nicer set of guys'."

Another long pause. Derek knew that couldn't be the whole of it, otherwise Stiles wouldn't be chewing on his thumbnail. Derek wished he could pull his hand away, knew Stiles would worry it to bleeding, a bad habit that had never broken.

"I don't want to be the person that's blindly happy people were killed. I don't-Danny loved Ethan, a lot. And I didn't get it, and I didn't like it. At all. But Danny was a good guy, and he was with Ethan when it happened. He saw Ethan dying and he couldn't do anything."

Not for the first time, Derek wished he knew the right thing to say. Mostly because he knew his opinions would only make Stiles feel worse. Danny had continued a relationship with a murderer. And given how the pack seemed to know everything, he doubted that Danny had been unaware of his boyfriend's crimes. Given that, he couldn't feel anything remotely close to sympathy for Danny.

"I think-" He started, choosing his words carefully. This would be so much easier if Stiles was there. "That even if you know how much it hurt Danny, you're still human, and you've earned the right to your own feelings about them."

Stiles made a derisive sound that had probably been intended to be nothing more than a sarcastic acknowledgment, but sounded more like recrimination.

"It's okay, to feel both. You're not a bad person. It's normal to be relieved they're gone and to feel bad that you're relieved." God only knew how often he'd experienced that particular cycle. Stiles nodded like he understood, like he knew exactly what Derek was saying without the names being spelled out.

Stiles relaxed, his body sagging in the chair. Derek wondered if the reaction would be the same if he'd been aware of everything going through his head.

"Yeah," Stiles finally sighed. "Yeah. I'm just. Working through it I guess. It still feels sort of unreal."

Unreal. Derek knew he'd check reports for himself, that nothing would be real until he read them, maybe not even then.

Stiles carried his laptop to the bed and plugged it in. They spoke in sporadic bursts, avoiding the past. Cassie slipped back in later, after Stiles had fallen asleep. She promised to wake him if he had a nightmare. Derek watched as the screen went dark and the call disconnected.

He was still sitting in Stiles' room when Caroline showed up, ignoring etiquette and walking into the house uninvited. After a few minutes of listening to her move around, he went downstairs and found her in the dining room, two glasses and a bottle of her homemade liquor sitting on the table.

"Cassie sent me a message," She said as he sat down.

He nodded woodenly as she started filling the glasses.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

He shook his head.

"Fair enough."

Four glasses in, they were both staring at the table when she spoke, voice quiet but authoritative. It was the voice of experience more than the voice of an alpha.

"The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends towards justice."

It sounded like empathy but felt like absolution.

* * *

**Derek POV**  


"You're humming," John said, the drill stopping as he paused to look at him.

Derek looked quizzically at Stiles' dad before shaking his head. He hadn't even realized he'd been doing anything.

"It's a song my wife used to sing," He added as explanation.

Derek immediately felt a wash of guilt threaten his good mood. He and John both had found a camaraderie of sorts, trading stories about Stiles and comparing sports teams. (Baseball was a surprising but pleasant common ground, even if their respective teams had a longstanding rivalry.) That they were working on a workshop for Stiles had probably helped, initially. If he was being honest with himself, he was still surprised to find the man in his home every morning. Surprised, but pleasantly so.

The last thing he'd wanted to do was dredge up painful memories.

"I'm sorry," He mumbled.

"Not a problem. Didn't know you knew it. It's nice to hear it again."

"Stiles sings it sometimes," Derek admitted, shifting his grip on the sheet of drywall.

"Huh," The sheriff said, and Derek was hit with a pang of-Something. It felt dangerously like homesickness. He could see where Stiles had gotten some of his mannerisms from, though. He and his father shared the same expressive faces, many of the same expressions in general. And it had turned out that Stiles' sarcasm was a genetic trait. "It's good that he remembers," John added a moment later, lips quirking in a small, wistful sort of smile.

Derek nodded silently as the drill started back up.

When they'd finished for the day, John headed into the house for a shower and he walked to the edge of the woods. Only ten days and they'd be back. Still, he felt antsy. The past couple of months had been difficult, and he was sure it was only focusing on the workshop and his actual work that had kept him from crawling the walls. Skype and email were not substitutes for actual presence, and he understood more and more why John had been willing to drive up on any of his long weekends to help out, why he was making every effort to make himself a part of Stiles' life. (He still didn't know if Caroline's suggestion to include him in the building process had been blatant manipulation or inspired genius.)

Feeling too tense to go in and shower, to settle into the normal dinner routine, he stretched once, allowed his barriers down. The ever present scent of the woods became a blanket of something sharp and damp. The constant pressure he'd lived with his entire life eased even as he allowed himself to acknowledge it, to become fully aware of it. He felt the shift cracking through his body, minute changes to his bones and features a touch too painful to ever really get used to.

Adrenaline hummed in his veins, his awareness spiraling as his senses sharpened. The air around him was cold, the deep inhale rolling over his tongue and back to fill his lungs, sharp and brittle.

Stiles said it was freezing in Norway, that he was positive he was going to turn into the Abominable Snowman after all. (That they could take anything from that night and laugh about it filled his chest with something strangely like hope, like maybe someday they could remember and not flinch.)

That thought sent him bolting into the woods, away from his house, steeped in Stiles and Cassie's scents. Another wave of homesickness washed over him, which made no sense, except it did. His friends were across the Atlantic, on another continent. Caroline and Rick had both insisted he come over despite the pair being gone, and he did, although he'd spent more nights in Stiles' beds than his own. John seemed sensitive to how much he missed them, and they commiserated in a silent way, one that didn't require talking about it to know. Even Miles seemed to get why he'd been a little off balance and invited himself to help with the construction, or dragged him out to the local pub for beer.

All of it helped, a little. But none of it was the same, none of them were unconsciously affectionate with him, not that he wanted them to be. Even with those he considered familiar, his reaction to touch was unpredictable at best. But Stiles and Cassie both were just so easy with how they invaded his personal space, as if there had never been a time when they hadn't been that comfortable with one another, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. And he missed that, missed that tactile assurance of their presences, of their scents blending into his own and his own bleeding into theirs.

Still, ten days. Feeling giddy from adrenaline and a flush of excitement he let out a howl, imagined them back, imagined seeing them, seeing the look on Stiles' face at the sight of the new workshop, at running with them and falling asleep cramped in the same bed, listening to Stiles tell him about Norway and going through the pictures he'd taken so he could hear the stories behind them-

He tripped and rolled into a tree, his howl cut short and strangled as he struggled to gain his bearings. Something was pulling on him, tightening around his legs as he struggled. A snarl ripped itself from his throat as he looked back-

And he couldn't breathe.

For several minutes, he couldn't comprehend the sight of pants tangled, his feet not quite emerging, or the legs too tight around his…

Haunches.

He had haunches. Furry haunches.

Almost crossing his eyes with effort to understand that his pants were essentially strangling his legs, he realized he also had a snout.

Carefully, he wriggled and writhed, extracted himself from his pants. With a sense of very human mortification, he managed to get himself free of the boxer shorts strangling the strange new addition of a tail. His shirt ripped as he pulled and wriggled himself free of it.

Fur. Haunches. Paws. Snout. Tail.

Excited yipping sounds tumbled one over the other, almost foreign into the air as he circled himself, examining the black fur. He was glad no one was around to see him, because he was sure he'd never live it down. But-

He'd somehow managed a full transformation. Into a wolf. Like his mother.

_Like his mother._

He'd tried before, when he'd been an alpha, and only ever managed to shift into a grotesque parody of a werewolf, like Peter had. It hadn't been the beautiful wolf he'd always remember his mother as. Just something out of a horror movie, not worth anything more than a cursory glance and repugnance. Certainly not worth repeating.

Afraid suddenly, that there was something deformed about him, something he couldn't see, he took off, running for Caroline's. Even cutting through the forest, it felt like forever, panic souring the exhilaration that he normally felt when he pushed his body during a run. The freedom he'd grasped felt stifling, the air pressure only weighing down on him more.

He bounded up their back deck, scratched at the door impatiently, attempting to turn the frightened keening coming from his mouth (muzzle?) into a more respectable bark. The door opened and Marianne stared down at him, a smile immediately lighting upon her features.

He rushed past her, towards Cassie's room. Marianne followed, and he could practically feel her confusion as he scratched at the door, oblivious to the damage he was doing to the paint. She opened it for him and he darted around to the corner of the room where Cassie's vanity stood. Once or twice he'd thought about building her a new one, something less gaudy with a smaller mirror. Now he was grateful he'd waited.

The combined scents of his absent friends calmed him as he braced his paws on the vanity and peered at his reflection.

"You've fully connected with your anchor," Caroline's voice said. Derek saw her coming up behind him. He was still entranced with the wolf peering back at him, reminded almost painfully of his mother. Her eyes had been red, his were still blue, and he was bigger than she had been, he could see himself reflected in the wolf's broad muscling, the way his expression shifted. Most importantly, there were no deformities, nothing was off or wrong about him. He wasn't some twisted caricature of a wolf, didn't look like he had _before_.

He tilted his head at Caroline, still not entirely sure it wasn't some sort of cruel trick.

"You're beautiful, Derek," She murmured, leaning down and wrapping her arms around him. Red eyes stared into his, and he saw pride reflected there. Realized that she was proud of _him_. He'd done this somehow, something most werewolves never managed their whole lives, something not even all alphas could figure out.

"You have clothes here. I'll meet you downstairs," Caroline told him, voice quiet but the order implicit. He followed them out, casting one last look at his reflection. Marianne opened the door to Stiles' room and closed it behind him.

Shifting felt different, and he wondered how he'd managed to miss the sensation of his bones changing completely, his organs sliding and moving into place, his jaw cracking loudly, the sound of ice breaking echoing somewhere in his ears. It was utter and complete transformation, but for all the new sensations, it still felt more subtle than the half shift he was used to.

When he was looking down at human thighs and human feet, he took a step towards the dresser and stumbled before catching his balance. He took a deep breath, found his center of gravity, and moved forward again. Dressing felt almost awkward, and he tried not to think about the sight of his tail stuck in his boxers. Instead, he focused on the image in the mirror, about what Caroline had said.

He'd fully connected with his anchor. It made no sense to him. Wolves were required to be connected to their anchors. That was the whole point. Shaking his head, he pulled a shirt over his head and padded out of the room, barefoot, and downstairs.

Caroline was in her office, and despite being told to speak to her, he still knocked. The door opened and he stepped in. The minute it closed he was pulled into a strong embrace. Caroline smelled of salt and water, and he had no idea why she was crying, but he pulled back, confused by both her tears and her hug. He'd never been one for hugging randomly, and it was almost- No, it was genuinely, _painfully_ awkward to be embraced by his alpha.

"I am so proud of you," She murmured, her smile almost blinding.

"I don't understand," He admitted, shaking his head. Her reaction was throwing him completely off balance, and he wasn't sure what was going on anymore. There were others in the pack that could make the full shift, and while he'd questioned it before, no one had ever seemed to think it was exceptional. Certainly not something to warrant the open, honest joy pouring off of Caroline.

Caroline gestured for him to follow. The chairs in front of her desk were facing eachother, and she took one instead of claiming her normal spot of authority behind her desk. When he sat, she leaned forward, elbows braced on her knees as she took his hands in hers.

"Derek, how do you think one attains a full transformation?"

"Power," He answered honestly.

"That's a myth," Caroline murmured. "Often perpetuated by those that can accomplish it. Some genuinely don't know any better. It's become a sign of strength, of standing. It commands respect because of the power and control it implies."

Derek nodded slowly. It was part of the reason his mother had been so well respected, even Deucalion had admitted that.

"Power actually plays only a very small role in it, almost nonexistent," Caroline explained. "One only needs to be capable of it, that's the only role power plays. Some bodies can't handle it, physically. Some can. Some have a spark of magic, the kind that makes us what we are, strong enough, others don't."

Derek nodded slowly, still not entirely sure how he'd managed it when he'd always been capable, if he'd always been capable.

"Full transformation comes from connecting to your anchor, trusting it's certainty with every fiber of your being, knowing that it will be there to connect you to your humanity."

"I thought that's what anchors were," He mumbled, feeling ignorant in the face of Caroline's knowing stare.

"It's one thing to hold to your anchor. It's another to fully trust it, to let go and allow it to hold you."

It took a moment for the words to sink in, for the difference to become distinct.

_Oh._

"You've come so far, Derek," She told him, the pride evident in her tone as her hands squeezed his gently. "When we first met, you didn't trust anything or anyone. But you've found that again. You're letting yourself have that. That's why I'm proud of you. That's why I'm happy for you."

The words felt as foreign as his body had for a moment. He closed his eyes, afraid of being a child again, terrified he'd look up and see the same expression his mother had worn the night his eyes had changed.

"Look at me," Caroline chided, obviously sensing his internal conflict. She forced his chin up and he opened his eyes, surprised to see that her eyes had bled into red and that she was smiling at him, expression compassionate. "You deserve it, Derek. The mistakes you've made, you've grown into them, made something of them. You are worth this. You are worthy of having this."

He had the feeling she meant more than just the transformation, and it startled him to realize that someone thought so. Someone beyond Stiles and Cassie. He wondered if he hadn't allowed himself to acknowledge others trying to tell him that.

"Thank you."

"It's fine, Derek," Caroline told him, smile turning benevolent. "Cassie and Stiles are going to be so happy for you."

Stiles.

"Shit," He muttered.

"Hmm?" Caroline asked, gaze sharpening.

"John-I left him at the house-"

Caroline's laughter echoed in the office, the moment of tension evaporating in the deep, rich sound of her amusement.

"I'll call him and let him know you're on your way home," She told him. "If you need, you can leave your clothes at the barn."

Derek nodded, feeling inexplicably shy as they stood. Caroline hugged him again, and despite the awkwardness, he hugged her back. It was strange, being hugged by a mother for the first time in over a decade, and he hadn't realize how much he'd missed it, had never allowed himself to think about it. Hugs from mothers weren't for people like him. Except- Except Caroline's hugs reminded him of his mother's, of something strong, something secure being offered without hesitation. She wasn't his mother, would never replace her, but there was something dependable about it, familiar.

"We're all proud of you," Caroline repeated before he stepped back and offered what he knew was probably closer to a grimace than an actual smile.

When they walked out, Rick was in the living room, a grin stretching from ear to ear.

"I take it it's a surprise?" He asked gamely, obviously as pleased as Caroline.

Derek nodded, feeling the tips of his ears burn. Rick and Caroline's acceptance of his relationship with the others, their ability to just understand, was something that still bewildered him, considering everything they did know about him. But he was grateful for it, grateful that Rick seemed to know without asking that he wanted to share this with them instead of letting it get back to them through someone else.

"That's fine. We'll see you and John tomorrow."

"Thank you," Derek repeated, not sure what else he could say. He walked outside and shut the door behind him. He heard Caroline and Rick murmuring to eachother in low voices inside as he walked down the steps of the deck and felt the dead grass beneath his feet.

There was no difference, which surprised him. Shifting halfway didn't try to pull him into a full shift, didn't feel any more or less painful than it had before. He ran, ignoring the barn completely. As much as he would like to find that peace again, to assure himself that it had happened at all, showing up in his own home as a wolf, in front of the sheriff would probably only scare the hell out of him. John probably wouldn't even open the door for a strange wolf. And there was no way he was exposing himself to him. That was the last thing either of them needed.

Still, he allowed himself a smile as he ran back to his home. Caroline's words echoed through him, made him feel like things were healing a little, the jagged edges of himself beginning to fit back together. The faultlines would never completely heal, he knew better. But maybe-Maybe that wasn't so bad.

He slipped out at three in the morning, sure of the sheriff's deep, even breathing. When he let go and followed that spiraling sensation down, he had faith that the single tether to his humanity would hold.

He would be back, would always come back. He would always remind him how to be human.

The forest at night was sharper, deeper than he remembered it being. He howled, a long sound that moved through joy and a lament, from loneliness into wonder. Hopefully he was growing into someone worthy of his pack, of his anchor. And maybe, if he held to what he had built, he might become worthy of being his mother's son.

* * *

  
**John's POV**  
  


John watched Derek taking off into the woods with a tired smile. Not for the first time, he gazed around him in quiet amazement. That the house itself had been remodeled by Stiles still came in second to Stiles actually living there. His son's home. John had thought it would be years before he walked into a place his son considered 'home', not just an apartment or dorm. He wondered if all parents felt the same way, visiting their child's household, if it brought the same realization of independence and age. It was like walking into a man's life, seeing everything laid out for perusal. Even though Stiles was in Norway, he continued to linger, an almost palpable presence.

Like Derek humming a song he could remember his wife singing. It was a strange realization, the kinship he suddenly felt with Derek Hale. He'd been grateful, before. Derek had saved Stiles' life, helped him find a place he could grow, could make him happy. But now, he thought about Derek humming, remembered doing the same thing, once upon a time.

Maybe if he hadn't been aware of werewolves and magic, he would have been more upset. Certainly, he had every right to be leery. Except he wasn't. When Derek had taken him to the side and spoken to him in a hushed tone about his plans, he'd allowed himself the simple pleasure of anticipation. He'd spent years on the outside of his son's life, looking in. There were things Stiles lived that he would never understand, magic being the tip of the proverbial iceberg. But building him something, helping him with those aspects of his life, allowed him to become involved, however tangentially. It was something, and after years of deadlock, he was willing to do everything he could.

Derek going out of his way to include him had been unexpected, but it was a pleasant sort of surprise. The first of many, as he spent more and more time in Portland.

He'd never expected to commiserate with Derek, but there it was. Every time he visited, he felt like someone _got it_ , got him. Not even Melissa could understand how much he missed his son, how proud he was that Stiles had come so far. Achieving what sounded suspiciously like studying abroad in Norway was on par with werewolves and magic to a parent that worked as a civil servant, and he'd bragged about it to the entire department and even his wife, despite the circumstances.

That Derek had somehow known exactly what to offer him to keep his mind off of the fact that his son was on another _continent_ would forever be a source of astonishment (and possibly respect). And the more he helped, laying foundation and building up the walls, the more he began to understand Derek as a person. What he found didn't upset him as much as he'd been afraid of. If anything, it was a series of pleasing observations, each one going further to help him make peace with how his son's life had turned out.

Derek wasn't all bad. Damaged, sure. But he'd be the first to admit that his son wasn't whole and unbroken. It would be a disservice to them both to ignore the scars life had left on them. It did mean that someone understood Stiles, in ways he'd never be able to. John was willing to accept that his intentions weren't completely pure, that whatever his gratitude implied about Derek's circumstances, he was relieved that someone empathized, that Stiles wasn't alone.

That it was Derek, well, the more he learned, the more comfortable he felt. The kid only cared about a few select people, but those people were paramount. John could respect that. Likewise, he realized Derek wasn't _just_ a werewolf, which had been, perhaps, a bigger revelation than it ought to have. He enjoyed his work as a craftsman, allowed his ability to create to define his life as much as being a werewolf did. He enjoyed reading and action films and baseball (even if his team was a disgrace). He didn't just have pack, he had friends. Even if some of those friends were also supernatural creatures, it was easy to forget. (Miles had been an _experience_. The fact that he was a skinwalker had nothing to do with it either.)

Even damaged, Derek was an involving person, more than John had given him credit for. And he cared for Stiles, was quietly dedicated to him in a way that had inspired a hell of a double take upon recognition.

Maybe John only recognized it because he'd done the same thing once, for Claudia. He'd cleared the ground and dug flowerbeds, sifted out the rocks and lined the beds, dropped in a few tons of fertilized soil and bordered them with decorative stones. It had taken two weekends and his evenings and made it impossible to hold his gun for almost a month, putting him on desk duty and earning him a loud, public dressing down from the former sheriff. The garden had never amounted to much of anything either. His wife's 'green thumb' had been closer to black. But he knew the difference between giving someone a gift and building what amounted to a promise.

Under other circumstances, John might have been worried. But if there was one thing he could appreciate, it was that his son and Derek's tendency to ignore the obvious would give them some time to adjust to the idea. At any rate, it was going to provide plenty of entertainment.

* * *

**Derek's POV**

Derek traced the raised lines of the still healing tattoo, fascinated by the intricacy of the pattern. It was a compulsive comfort, allowed him to ground himself in scent and touch. Stiles' sleepy murmurings didn't mean much to him. He didn't know what each rune meant, but Stiles must have recognized whatever paths he followed. It was awing, that Stiles instinctively knew which lines created what meanings. Even more so, that Stiles had designed it himself and submitted to an atavistic tradition not his own.

Two months of absence faded, lost as the stench of recycled air and strangers dimmed. Cassie was already asleep, and even he felt lethargic, able to rest easy for the first time in weeks. Even so, having them both sharing the bed again felt like a novelty, something he needed to stay awake to appreciate.

But as Stiles' breathing evened out to match Cassie's, he felt his eyelids grow heavy, his hand stilling to splay out across the design, flesh pulsing lightly in time to Stiles' heartbeat. His last coherent thought, sentimental enough that it would have been odd at any time he wasn't on the border of sleep, was that it felt like he'd been the one gone for two months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many notes. Actually mostly just commentary. (I've been up for 24 hours, I'll try not to ramble)
> 
> 1.) "The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends towards justice." -Martin Luther King Jr.  
> I have words. So many words about the twins. I might unleash them on tumblr at some point. Not here. (i am still and will probably continue to remain angry.)
> 
> 2.) I have a different take on the ‘real wolf’ transformation, which is part of the reason true wolves have made been mentioned in this fic. Deucalion said Talia was so powerful she could do it, and it garnered her respect within the supernatural community. Except Deucalion was really powerful, and he just looked like a gargoyle. So. I have headcanon.  
> And feels. Because I can and because awhile back someone asked for Derek getting a hug from Caroline, because he needed them too. Also, Sheriff and Derek time, because a) it needed to happen and b) the sheriff is not an idiot. 
> 
>  
> 
> 3.) John thinks inviting him to work on the garage was Derek's idea. Derek and other parties are more than content to let it remain so.  
> That being said, the sheriff is not blind. Also, I've known a few children of policemen and (now older) I have a couple of friends in law enforcement. It doesn't pay that much. In the episode where Stiles got to play lacrosse, the sheriff was (adorably) stoked. Now imagine that applied to what amounts to a study abroad program. Yeah, it's for magic, but still. He'd be bragging about it to anyone that would listen and probably people who don't. (headcanon is that Papa Stilinski is almost always ridiculously proud of Stiles and also a romantic sap.)
> 
> 4.) Derek is aware of his 'thing' for Stiles. YAY! Only not really, because failwolf.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you get so close to someone you end up on the other side of them. - Richard Siken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here be spoilers for 21:Winter of TAoFaN. 
> 
> Also. So. Many. Pov.

John stared at his phone, rubbed his palm along the rasp of stubble that had grown over the course of three days.

"Call him," Melissa said, staring him down. It wasn't the first time she'd said it since Allison and Issac had gone missing, but it was the first time he was actually considering it.

"Scott didn't want him here." It was a weak argument at best.

"Scott can take it up with me when he comes back."

Even Chris seemed to agree, and if that wasn't a sign that things were well and truly beyond their control, John had no idea what was. Even so. He had a hard time calling his son and asking for help, especially when it concerned the pack. Melissa might have started patching things up with Scott, but John was having trouble forgiving the kid for eightysixing his son on top of everything else that had happened.

"Stiles has the Valdyr pack," Chris said, as if that meant something. "Right now we need reinforcements, and he's the only one with any connections we can use. It'll be safer with more people."

"Don't," John bit out, angry. Chris was suspicious at the best of times, his cold pragmatism usually compatible with his personal desires. John knew the type, knew the manipulation. "Don't try to make it anything except what it is. It's Allison's ass on the line, and Scott's. I get that you're worried about them, but you're asking me to put _my son_ in the line of fire." And he loved his wife, and he understood that her son was missing, even empathized with Chris, but their first priority would always be their children, just like Stiles would always be his.

"Stiles wouldn't let Scott deal with this alone," Melissa said, voice ringing with conviction. And John hated that she was right, that even though Scott and Stiles were so broken Stiles would still come running. Eager and willing to throw himself into danger, no matter the circumstances.

"John, this isn't just about the pack. Whatever is doing this, it's too strong to ignore. We need help. I can't contact hunters. They wouldn't care about collateral damage."

And that was a hell of a thing, because he was a sheriff and the term collateral damage set his teeth on edge, made him itch for his gun. Still, Stiles felt like the nuclear option. Putting his son in danger after he'd managed to escape, to find a place to settle down and actually _thrive_ -

It felt damningly like he was failing as a parent.

"Stiles is an emissary," Chris said, when he still hadn't moved to make the call. "He's old enough to make the decision for himself."

He was, and if he ever found out about it, if anything happened to Scott and he could have done something to stop it, he'd never forgive himself. Or John, for that matter. That was a grudge that would never go away, not even if they pretended it wasn't there.

" _If_ he comes," He said, stressing it in the futile hope that Stiles might say no. "No one, and I mean no one mentions the break. You don't get to ask why, or make accusations, or push him. No milking him for information about his new pack," John added, glaring at Chris. "And if I find out you've done any of those things, I will take every piece of evidence I have been ignoring and bury you."

"Understood. I just want Allison back, safe."

"If anything happens to her, you won't pin it on Stiles or his pack."

"Not unless they cause it," Chris allowed, voice still calm. But calm could be a threat, had been a threat more than once.

"Not at all," John snarled. "This isn't a negotiation. You lift a finger to hurt my son or his pack and I'll hit you so hard and fast Gerard will envy me."

Chris' pale gaze hardened, but he nodded in assent. John didn't believe it for a second, but he'd deal with that problem if and when it happened. Turning away from Melissa and Chris, he strode through the house to his office, closing the door behind him before scrolling through his contacts.

Once he'd finished the call, he closed his eyes and prayed he hadn't just undone everything Stiles had worked for.

 

* * *

 

Derek stared at the mess of Stiles' room. He'd told himself he was only going to grab the laundry, to pretend like nothing strange was going on (it wasn't, Stiles was perfectly within his rights to go home with someone) but the disarray that greeted him gave him pause, made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

Stiles kept his room relatively neat, if only because he shared it so often. The fact that someone did his laundry for him made it easier, the only mess normally being books and notes, easily stacked on his desk. This though-

The drawers under the bed had been pulled open, hastily shoved back in, corners sticking out or not all the way closed. One of them reeked of something that made his nose itch, seeping past the combined scents of the bed's normal occupants and the lightness of the maple frame. He leaned down, pulled the drawer open and frowned.

Some of the boxes he'd made for Stiles were left, but the drawer was mostly empty. Derek knew Stiles kept several of the weapons he'd been working on under the bed, understood the paranoia (and was it paranoia when it was justified?) that had driven him to create and keep them close. Quickly checking the other drawers proved that the weapons stash was gone, as well as some of his clothing. If he remembered correctly (and god, he hoped not) Stiles also kept his old BSHD duffels stored under the bed too.

Ignoring the growing seeds of apprehension, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and called Stiles' number. Hopefully he'd be forgiven for interrupting whatever it was he was up to. Caution trumped annoyance, right?

The call went straight to voicemail.

Ever since Stiles had taken his oaths, he'd been almost pathological about keeping his phone charged and on. One of the many little details that gave away how seriously he took his duties, how prepared he was for the worst to happen.

Okay. Weapons gone, phone off. He wasn't at Caroline's, because Derek had just come from there. Cassie had spent the night at her apartment. Derek called her number next.

"Hey Starkey," Cassie greeted, sniffling. Derek could hear the sounds of Love, Actually in the background. She'd been watching it twice a week since returning from Norway. Maybe Stiles was helping her through another crying jag? God knew he'd been forced to sit through it often enough to know it line for line.

"Is Stiles there?"

"No. He sent a text last night, but it's after noon. He should be up."

Derek took a deep breath. "You weren't with him last night?"

"No," She said, the sounds of the movie cutting off. "Derek, what's wrong?"

"Can you check the apartment? I'm at the house."

"Derek, what's wrong?" She repeated.

He really didn't want to panic over nothing, didn't want to be projecting his personal feelings onto a few facts and blowing them up. But over the past few years he'd gotten better at parsing what was personal and what was instinct, and his instincts were going off, klaxons inside of his head. Something was _wrong_. He just didn't know what.

"His phone is off-"

Cassie inhaled sharply.

"And the weapons under the bed are gone." He decided not to mention the duffels, they might just be at the apartment or even at Caroline's.

"I'll go over there," Cassie promised, the sounds of clothing rustling echoing over the line. "Talk to you soon. Love you."

He hung up, not responding, not sure how to respond. For a moment, he stared blindly at the room, not absorbing anything. When he realized that he wasn't helping, he took a deep breath, attempted to read the scents in the room.

Stiles had smelled of anxiety recently, of nightmares and frustration. They weren't new scents, standing out from the old ones. Too much had happened for the cause to ever stop, but there was a fresh layer pulling at the old, pronouncing it. Derek knew they could just as easily resulted from a phone call from his dad, or a nightmare, or even something he'd read in one of his books. But it stacked up with the other facts and made the apprehension shift, dread blooming, chilling his skin.

He stalked through the house and back outside into the cold air. When he opened the door to Stiles' workshop, he realized it wasn't locked. Stiles was a sheriff's son, as he often pointed out. He locked doors as automatically as Derek did. When he looked inside, inhaled, the same scents from the room lingered. Fear, anxiety, barely there anger, and the added scent of panic souring it all, making it sharp and bitter in the back of his throat. The shelves were usually an organized chaos only Stiles could navigate, but Derek could see the difference between that and the scattered wreck it was, noticed all the new gaps where items were missing.

His phone trilled in his pocket, made him twitch at the sudden noise. He pulled it out and accepted the call.

"He's not there," Cassie said, her car door slamming loudly. "Should we call mom?"

Stiles hadn't told Caroline what was going on in the first place, and that was-That was telling in and of itself. He'd obviously had time to collect his weapons and things from his workshop, and there weren't any other scents lingering around the house or in the workshop.

"No," He said slowly, trying to think past the first stages of panic. Energy moved, buzzed unpleasantly beneath his skin, motion that wanted to realize itself. "No, just come to the house."

"Be there soon."

He didn't tell her not to speed, it would be a wasted effort. Instead he shut his phone off and took several deep breaths, looking for anything that might indicate an intruder. Nothing.

Combining sight and sound, he slowly walked out, circled the house, crept inside. Only Stiles' scent was fresh. He'd been there the night before. Unless someone knew how to completely mask their scent, he'd been alone.

Not with someone else.

He didn't allow himself the flicker of relief he might have otherwise enjoyed, because that meant Stiles had _lied_.

Stiles had promised no more lies. After Waldport, and again after Scott had banned the pack from Beacon Hills. Lies had been the root of the problem, in so many ways. Lies had almost destroyed them, over and over. Stiles wouldn't have made that choice lightly. Which meant something was going on. Something he didn't want the pack to know about. Something he didn't want Derek to know about.

The front door slammed and Cassie was stomping up the stairs, panic making her steps heavier than they should have been.

"Did you find anything out?" She demanded the moment she found him in the bedroom. Her eyes surveyed the mess, widening slightly.

"No."

"We should call mom."

Derek shook his head. "No, if Stiles didn't tell her, then there was a reason."

"He didn't tell _us_ ," Cassie reminded him.

And while Derek was positive it would make him want to strangle him, Stiles must have had a reason for that too. He knew better than to go charging off on his own.

"Derek?"

"Can you check his accounts again?" He asked, looking up at her. "My laptop is in the den."

She nodded and bolted from the doorway, a stampede of noise moving through the house. He took several deep breaths and tried to think. But all of it circled back to Stiles ignoring protocol and not speaking to Caroline and Rick, and then outright lying to him and Cassie. None of it was something he'd do without a damn good reason. Derek just couldn't figure out what it was.

"Nothing since last night. He stopped at a Walgreens," Cassie called out, voice muffled by walls and doors.

"How much was the transaction?"

"Almost two hundred dollars."

Derek pinched the bridge of his nose. That was an ungodly amount to spend at a drug store.

Cassie came back up, chewing her lower lip in worry. Derek was staring at the floor, one option standing out from all the others. A final test for confirmation.

"Derek, you okay?"

He nodded, slipping the pendant from under his shirt. Stiles had told him in quiet, solemn tones what it was, had later explained bits and pieces of the magic stored in them. Derek had understood what he was trying to do, what he'd been promising when he'd given it to them. But the necklace was more than that, a steady reassurance to carry though the day, something solid when Stiles and Cassie weren't nearby.

"Derek?"

_'It'll help me find you, no matter where you are.'_

He clenched the pendant in his fist, felt the blue glass fracture and shatter, sliver cutting into his skin. The scent of old, dried blood, Stiles' blood, mingled with his own. Exactly as Stiles had instructed. The destruction of the pendant and their blood combined, created whatever it was Stiles would follow. He could feel the flare of magic coming to life, a barely there whisper he noticed only because he was looking for it.

"Derek, what are-Oh."

"If he's okay, he'll call you." If he wasn't, Derek would call Caroline himself, and then John. He didn't look forward to either call, but John would be the worst by far.

Cassie pulled her phone out of her jacket pocket and stared at it, as if willing it to ring. The minutes passed, each one making it more difficult to breathe.

When the phone rang, it wasn't the obnoxious 'Do You Believe In Magic' clip that he knew was Stiles' tone. It was someone else's. Cassie growled and tapped the screen. "John?" She ground out, sounding frustrated.

Suddenly everything made sense.

"Cas, where's Derek?" Stiles' voice asked, slightly slurred. Derek felt his chest expanding, his throat unclenching enough to allow air through. His plan had worked. Stiles had called. He was with john.

Stiles was in Beacon Hills.

"Stiles? Goddamnit." Cassie snarled, and Derek heard himself echoing the noise, frustrated and afraid. Beacon Hills. Of course he was there. It was the only place he'd go and do everything to keep Derek away from. "Derek, he's in Beacon Hills." Cassie said, repeating what he'd already known.

"Derek's there?" Stiles asked, sounding relieved.

"We've been trying to find you, you complete _asshole,"_ Cassie ground out, before holding the phone out in offering.

"What-"

"Stiles." He somehow turned the name into a demand. _Tell me why you're there. Tell me why you lied._

"Hey," Stiles greeted, sounding a little drunk.

"Why are you in Beacon Hills?"

"It's nothing."

"Stiles-" He snapped, frustration making his voice sharp, unforgiving. 'Nothing' was Stiles speak for 'something awful'. Stiles was normally a better liar, and Derek didn't know if it was because Stiles was drunk or because he actually wanted him there that the deception was so impaired.

"I'm just helping Scott with something."

Derek was readying a volley of responses when John's voice came on the line.

It was even worse than he'd thought. The entire pack was missing, Allison and Issac first, then Scott. Something was using magic in the area, making it impossible to find them. John had asked Stiles to come down and help, had expected him to bring at least Derek with him.

"I didn't know where he was until I used the fail safe," Derek snapped, furious. Stiles had ignored all the rules and thrown himself headfirst into the mess, just like he had when he was a teenager. And even though he'd completely gone off book, he should have at least told Derek.

"No. Dad, no. He's not coming here, this isn't his problem." Stiles voice was muffled, but it came through the line easily enough.

Derek snarled into the phone. "He _is_ my problem. Tell him I'm coming down, and if he does anything stupid I'm going to kick his ass."

"We'll see you guys soon," John said, sounding relieved.

"Don't let him go out on his own, alright?" Derek demanded, already getting up.

"He looks like hammered shit right now, he's not leaving the house."

"Did something happen?" Stiles had been gone less than a day, most of that spent driving.

"He tried finding them through the nemeton."

"What?" Derek snarled, another wave of rage cresting and breaking. "The last time he messed with it he was unconscious for two days! Don't let him do it again. We're leaving right now."

"Drive safe, bring as many as you can."

The line went dead. Derek was already down the stairs when he felt Cassie grabbing his shoulder. The swell that erupted from his throat was nothing short of combative, making her flinch back from him.

"What about mom?"

Derek shook his head tightly. "The Valdyr pack is banned. Scott made her an enemy. If she goes in right now, everyone would see it as an act of aggression."

"But we can't-" Cassie started, looking helpless. She'd rebelled, but she'd never broken pack law. Derek forced himself to remember that Cassie wasn't like him, or even Stiles. Ignoring protocol and keeping the situation from her alpha had to be going against her instincts.

Derek inhaled sharply, forced himself to calm down, to think instead of just acting. "She'll try to keep us here until she can figure out how to approach the territory. It could take days." And it would alert anyone and everyone that the territory was up for grabs. A territory with a power source like the nemeton in the middle of it would attract someone or something, complicating the issue.

"Fuck that," Cassie growled, her hesitation slipping away. "I'm not waiting that long, and you're sure as hell not going without me."

God, Beacon Hills. He almost wanted to leave her behind, but he'd need all the help he could get. Goddamn politics and protocol. No one had taken Beacon-fucking-Hills into account when they'd written the laws.

"Miles," He breathed, remembering. Miles intentionally lived on his own, a Neutral, a self declared omega. He didn't have a clan or a leader to answer to. Protocols didn't apply when there was no one there to enforce them.

He pulled his phone back out, scrolled through the numbers and hit Miles' name.

"What?" The skinwalker groused after a few rings. Derek had never been so grateful to hear his boss' voice.

"I need help, and I can't ask my alpha."

"Hiding a body?" Miles rumbled. Derek knew he should be worried that it was a serious question, but found a measure of comfort in the fact that Miles was genuinely willing to go that far for him. It might actually come to that, and it was always best to know which friends wouldn't run screaming into the night. Or terminate his employment.

"Stiles' dad called him to Beacon Hills, there's trouble there. I need to get down there now. My pack has been outlawed from the territory and-" And he was dragging more people into it. But Miles was strong, and smarter than people gave him credit for. He'd survived as a Neutral for years. Not many could manage that, especially in a city.

"And you need back up," Miles finished. "You know I've got you idiots. I'll meet you at the house. Pack some clothes and eat something."

The line went dead and Derek stared at his phone. Miles was coming. Miles hadn't even asked what was wrong in Beacon Hills, and he was coming to help him. Them. Idiots, plural. He had their backs.

"Miles is on his way. Go find some of your clothes and pack." He hoped they wouldn't be there that long. Caroline would notice their absence. Shit. Caroline. She'd know if they left town. Alphas weren't omniscient, but they weren't stupid either. Especially not Caroline. "I'm telling your mom we're headed to our spot for a few days."

Their 'spot' as Caroline affectionately called it, was Waldport. She'd respected their privacy and never tried to figure out where they'd hidden themselves the Christmas before. He'd respected her more for it. Now he was lying to her about it.

"I can do it," Cassie called out.

"Already got it," He called out, tapping out a message. Hopefully she would just think they wanted some time out of the city before Christmas, or maybe nostalgia had hit, or maybe Cassie wanted to escape her current relationship woes. Whatever his alpha chose to believe, he didn't want Cassie to the be one that delivered the lie. He was making the decision, he should take as much of the fall as he could. Stiles couldn't be blamed for going to his dad in an emergency. Coupled with the fact that he wasn't a beta, he would be some leeway. Derek knew better than to think he would receive any for what he was doing.

Once he'd gotten a text back with a 'Have fun. Let us know when you're on the way back.' he shoved his phone back in his pocket and went upstairs to his room.

Half of his clothing was in Stiles' room, through a strange osmosis he still couldn't successfully fight, even though he (almost) always separated their laundry and took his clothes back to his room. He threw a few sets of clothing on the bed, enough to last for three or four days before hunting for a duffel and sloppily folding them before stacking them in.

"All his bags are gone," She mumbled, dropped her own clothes, balled and messy, in without care. He zipped it up and slung it over his shoulder, already walking out the door.

He managed to make them both sandwiches, quickly thrown together messes that he didn't taste as he gulped it down. By the time Miles and Payton got there (and he had Payton too, and it was more surprising than it should have been) both he and Cassie were sitting on the porch in their jackets, all of the doors locked and the duffel already in the truck.

"Well, lead the way!" Miles called out from his window, arm hanging out the window.

Cassie made a thoughtful sound a few miles into I5 before pulling her phone back out. He was about to ask when he heard Lydia's voice on the other end. Cassie explained the situation, what little they knew, and listened intently.

Lydia was- Perhaps irate wasn't the correct term, but it was close enough, the frustrated ranting on the other line abruptly ending as she promised to catch the next plane out.

_'Tell Derek not to do anything stupid, or I'll kick his ass too.'_

The goodbyes were perfunctory, but he felt a little better for knowing that Lydia was coming. He secretly held the belief that Lydia and Stiles could easily be the most terrifying pair of people in the world, given the right motivation. They'd endured Beacon Hills together, somehow come out of it alive, and both of them seemed to understand each other, compliment one another in a way Derek doubted anyone else could.

He pushed that thought to the wayside. Lydia would always make him a little uncomfortable, if only because he remembered how obsessed Stiles had been with her.

"I didn't know you and Lydia were friends," He said, checking his rear view mirror for Miles' truck. Still behind him.

"She saw my words with friends scores against Stiles and mocked him. I challenged her to a game. Then we started mocking him together. Then we started mocking other things."

That sounded exactly like how he would have imagined it, if it had ever been a consideration. Lydia and Cassie were friends.

He must have been a fascist dictator in a previous life.

 

* * *

 

When Chris pulled up next to the jeep, he was calm. He'd been raised to be mission oriented, and the one truly good thing that had come of his father's tutelage was that he barely ever panicked. Even when the world was on fire, falling apart at the seams, he was able to keep his cool and think. Something that separated him from any number of people.

He was calm as he called out for Melissa, his gun moving steadily around his body.

He was calm when he found them, Melissa's arm steadily bleeding, the ripped jacket sleeve dark and wet from her wound. He was even calm when he saw Stiles, unconscious and bleeding from deep lacerations on his chest, even though he knew Scott's (and maybe even his) continued survival counted on Stiles living. Caroline Valdyr sounded dangerous, by Deaton's account wasn't someone to tangle with. Chris knew better than to expect clemency if anything happened to her emissary.

Despite that, he was calm as he helped load them into the jeep, as he tossed Stiles' keys to Deaton.

Calm. Calm. _Calm_.

Even as Deaton laid Stiles out on a kitchen table and informed him that he would be playing nurse to the vet's doctor. He'd been in more dire situations, had seen people younger than Stiles dead and dying, wounded and being sewn back together in places far worse than a kitchen.

Something fractured that implacable calm when Deaton cut up the shirt, pulled it away from Stiles' skin.

Old scars littered Stiles' ribs. And suddenly Stiles wasn't an emissary anymore, wasn't a man. He was the sixteen year old kid he'd half carried half dragged out of his basement, the sheriff's too curious too sarcastic son, the boy that had unflinchingly called him out, exhibited a sense of honor more steadfast than his had ever been.

Line after line overlapped and stretched over his ribs. There was no mistaking them for anything but what they were. Knife wounds, too small to be from a wolf, too many, too varied, angled in the same way, for them to be the result of torture.

"Chris," Deaton said, voice firm.

He'd barely seen Stiles after the Darach's death and the dispersion of the alpha pack, but even so, he couldn't reconcile the evidence, the undeniable fact shoved right in his face, with the child he remembered.

He moved like an automaton, knew what needed to be done as well as Deaton, could blindly anticipate what the vet needed next.

It was awful, because it allowed him to keep staring, to wonder.

Everyone had come out of the sacrifice hurting, broken. Allison's hallucinations, Scott's paranoia-

What had Stiles been dealing with? What had he been so desperate to escape that he'd tried to carve it out of himself?

He didn't regret devoting himself to his daughter, but Allison's fury any time Stiles' name was mentioned began to take on a new light. He'd taken Allison's explanation at face value. Stiles had been selfish, Stiles refused to trust them. Stiles kept trying to get them in trouble, Stiles tried to make Scott choose.

Now-

He was a father, knew a father's pain. Even though he'd never spoken of it, never reached out, he'd silently empathized with Melissa and John. Their children had all been irreparably damaged in ways that they couldn't begin to comprehend, much less help.

But Stiles had just seemed angry. Not-Not whatever had driven him to turn on himself.

He wondered how John felt. He had to know, his expression not giving hint to any surprise, just worry, simple, parental fear. The fear that every parent faced, but one that was repeatedly driven home for all of them.

Allison had read the case file and cried, had told him she would never become Kate or Gerard, or even her mother. Scott had come to him, quiet and humble, asking to be put down if he ever crossed the line, for Chris to do it, if only to spare Allison and Issac the pain. Because he trusted him, trusted him to do the right thing instead of the emotional one.

Foolishly, he'd never thought of Stiles at all.

_Protect those who cannot protect themselves._

Small wonder Stiles had fled.

(He made the mistake of asking John. The conversation had felt less like an explanation and more like he'd kicked a man that was already down. Even so, he walked away from it, his faith in the boy's sense of honor reaffirmed. Stiles had turned on himself before the pack, he'd chosen exile over taking revenge. For all the resulting pain, it echoed a fortitude that even he had to respect.)

 

* * *

 

The moment they crossed into the territory, before they ever saw the deceptively (mocking) sign welcoming them to Beacon Hills, Derek tasted ash and blood, felt in in his mouth and slipping over his palms and down his wrists. Memories, he knew. Psychosomatic itches that would persist no matter how hard he scratched. Cassie seemed to sense his mood, stared out the window as they passed the sign on the main road.

He felt hunted, watched as he navigated from memory. Four years of absence hadn't dulled his recollection. Night after night of patrolling, of running for his life, searching for wolves and hunters and witches, looking for the best bolt holes for himself and his pack, all of it had only served to cement it in his memory. Unforgettable, inescapable. Two brief visits hadn't changed his memories at all, hadn't dulled the pain that accompanied being in the territory.

It felt like ages, and yet not nearly long enough.

Scott's house hadn't changed much. The driveway was full, Stiles' jeep snugly tucked in next to a black SUV, probably Chris'. When they got out, Miles and Payton were quiet, waiting for him. He got out, slammed his door too hard, the only outward sign he was willing to give on how close to the edge he felt.

Charred wood grit between his teeth. Earth steeped in the scent of rotting bodies. Bleach and magic. He ignored the driveway, moved to walk through the yard when he was stopped, something keeping him back. Cassie walked through the barrier without a hint of being rebuffed. Derek pushed at the invisible wall, growled loudly enough to make Cassie turn around and stare.

"We can't get in," Miles said, poking at the shield and frowning.

"Wards," Payton said, adding a low, impressed whistle for effect. He was staring at the wall like he could actually see it. He might, Derek realized. His mother had been a witch, something he joked about from time to time. "Keeps everything out, even humans. Or in, for that matter. They're keyed into Stiles."

Derek was getting ready to ask what that meant when Cassie brightened and slipped her pendant off before tossing it to him. He caught it and stared at the dusky purple stone. Stiles had called it amber, carved a different symbol on it. _'Cassie isn't you. Your name wouldn't work for her.'_

"His blood," She reminded him.

Derek moved forward, the wall gone. Magic buzzed lightly over his skin, only noticeable because he knew it was there. He tossed the pendant to Miles, who crossed and repeated the motion. Payton crossed and held it out by it's chain. Cassie slipped it back on and headed for the door.

Derek paused long enough to look at Stiles' jeep. Instantly he recognized the scent of Stiles' blood, thick and clinging to the interior. Too much. It was practically saturated in the scent. Another blood scent mingled with it, unfamiliar and cloying, nauseating.

"Come on," Miles commanded, grabbing his shoulder. When he didn't budge, claws pressed into his skin, pulling him back to himself. "We don't know what's going on," Miles reminded him. "Wait before you lose it."

It was worse than he thought, John's face a drawn, pale mask of worry when he let them into the house.

Cassie was already upstairs, whimpering loudly. Derek ignored John and Melissa, ignored that Chris was there, that Deaton was somewhere in the house, because the scent of blood and chemical, medicinal smells pervaded the house.

Stiles was laying on the bed, asleep. Just asleep, not-Not dead, not in a coma. His heart was steady, but he looked awful. Dark shadows stood out beneath his eyes, bruises that clashed with his sallow complexion. The blood scent was too strong for it to be a minor injury.

"Who did this?" He demanded quietly, fists clenching while Cassie scrabbled for Stiles' hand. The blankets shifted and he saw the bandages covering his chest.

"Melissa and Stiles went out while we were checking out the-The fire," John said, voice low. "Scott attacked them both."

The snarl was pulled out of him, furious, burning the air like a curse. Scott had attacked Stiles. Scott had-

Realization dawned, awful, horrible. Scott had attacked his mother.

"He's feral." _Damn it_.

"That's what we think," John admitted. "Stiles and Melissa both got him with wolfsbane before Stiles was knocked out. Melissa saw him shifting as he ran away. They didn't know who it was before that."

Just as Derek was about to speak, Cassie began snarling angrily. He looked over at her, saw the bandages held from Stiles' skin, her gaze zeroed in on the wounds.

"Cassie," He started, moving forward to pull her away from Stiles before she woke him up or opened the knitting flesh.

Cassie wasn't listening. "I'm going to kill him," She swore, the words mangled in her throat, through her sharp teeth. Like a trigger had been pulled, she was nothing but motion, moving faster than he'd ever seen and shoving past him and John both. He had to catch John, help him remain upright before running after her, footsteps thundering through the house. He ignored the stairs completely, jumped them all and almost bowled into Payton.

There was a strangled snarl that bled into a howl. Cassie was only a few feet away from the front door, struggling beneath Miles. Miles growled, kept her pinned to the floor as people began to converge on the foyer. He noticed Chris, saw Chris' hand resting on the butt of his pistol.

His roar echoed through the house, a demand and a reminder. She snarled back, glaring balefully up at him. Miles didn't move as Derek hunkered down in front of her, hands moving over her face. It probably wasn't the smartest move on his part, because she was snapping and angry, riding a wave of temper and hysteria that made her dangerous, willing to do anything. But he ignored her snapping teeth and rubbed his thumbs over her cheekbones, up to her temples as he cupped her cheeks.

The angry noises pitching from her throat turned to whimpers and pleads. He knew, understood what she wanted, why she needed it. On some level, he'd known when her anchor had shifted, had felt the difference as she'd dragged him into Stiles' bed to sleep with them. Comfort, he'd told himself, told Stiles. Only it had been more than that. And without Stiles, there was only him. At best he was on shaky ground himself, clinging to the sound of Stiles' heart beating, reminding himself that Stiles was alive. Half an anchor was better than none at all.

"Cas," He murmured, the name mixing with reassurances and commands to be still, to be calm.

When Miles finally got up and stepped back, Cassie lunged into him, dropping him on his ass. Her arms squeezed his middle, her face buried in his chest. Shallow, rapid breaths puffed against his shirt, reached his skin through the fabric.

"He's alive," He reminded her, reminded himself. "He's alive. He's going to wake up."

A long, mournful sound erupted against his chest, half keening wail, half howl. It reminded him of Laura, when she'd arrived at the house, her eyes burning red. Their family dead. The noise echoed inside of him, made his heart clench and ache in sympathy.

He continued murmuring into her hair until she sagged, like all of her strings had been cut.

Ignoring the stares directed at him, he picked her up and walked back upstairs. Even if Stiles was hurt, he was alive, and that had to be enough to keep them steady until he woke up. When they got into the room, he laid Cassie on the bed, stared at the both of them as she gripped his hand, black veins forming beneath her skin as she pulled at his pain, tried to ease his sleep.

When he was sure she wouldn't leave, he walked back downstairs and joined the others in the kitchen. Chris Argent's pale gaze shifted from Payton and Miles to him.

"This is it?" He asked, sounding disappointed. He could go fuck himself. While Derek was grateful legions of hunters hadn't flocked to the town, it wasn't like Chris had any reinforcements of his own.

"Does Caroline know?" John asked, ignoring Chris.

"No. The hierarchies would see it as an act of aggression unless she followed the protocols. It would take a week before she was able to come down," Derek admitted. "Political red tape."

"Even if she did manage it, it would spread the news. Unclaimed territory, especially with the power this place has," Payton added, uncharacteristically serious. "Someone would consider it worth taking."

Derek had considered that, though he hadn't wanted to say it aloud. Chris actually looked surprised, which-It was nice, actually to be thinking ahead of the man for once. Then again, Allison was missing, and even if he had no love for the girl (and a great deal of other, less warm, fuzzy feelings) she was the hunter's daughter. Chris wasn't completely cold.

"So you're in trouble with your pack?" Melissa asked.

"We're not pack, so we're not banned," Miles said, gesturing to himself and Payton.

"We're Neutrals," Payton added quietly. Chris looked confused, and that would have been thrillingly amusing at any other point and time, but Derek couldn't quite escape the stench of antiseptic lingering in the room. It clung to Melissa. Jesus. Scott had attacked Melissa. He'd have to be completely broken to ignore his instincts like that.

"Since we're going completely off book for this, I assume we're not hunting a feral," Miles stated bluntly, shattering the tension with all the grace of a sledgehammer. "So, what's the plan?"

"We find them, all of them. Scott's currently looking for his pack. If we have them here, he might follow."

"Will he recognize them?" Payton asked, voicing the concern no one else would. "He attacked his mother."

"The fire may have triggered him," Chris said, pointedly looking anywhere but at Derek.

"Fire?" Payton demanded. "What fire?"

"Someone burned their house down," John declared, voice steady even though he had to know what it would do, was doing to Derek. "This morning, while Stiles was trying to find them. He and Melissa didn't get hurt until after."

Derek resisted the urge to pack Stiles and Cassie into the back of his truck and just drive. There was no real destination in mind, so long as several hundred miles of distance separated it from Beacon Hills. Home would be nice. Caroline might not even notice they'd been gone. With a little bit of work, they could even hide Stiles' wounds until they'd healed. Stiles was unconscious, he wouldn't be able to protest.

"Derek," John said, grabbing his shoulder. It could have been to get his attention, or as a show of support, something. But touch was the wrong thing, couldn't-

He pulled away, shaking his head. Heat lingered where John had gripped him through his jacket. Too hot, searing.

"Go upstairs," John commanded, tone leaving no room for argument. "When we know more, I'll come and get you."

He should stay, figure out a plan, go over the information. But he needed to get away, the phantom howls rising up from that dark place in the back of his mind, urging him forward. His feet moved, carrying him upstairs and into the guest room. Stiles and Cassie's scents washed over him, soothed the burn and muffled the sound of his mother's howl.

There was a chair next to the bed. As much as he wanted to crawl into bed with them, to tangle his scent into Stiles', to cover the chemical bite of medicine and the metal of blood, the bed was small and Stiles was injured. Even as a wolf he would take up too much room, jostle the bed too much. And he wasn't going to try moving Cassie, even if a selfish part of him wanted to. So he took the chair, pulled it close and dropped into it, hand moving to find Stiles' shoulder.

"We're going to be okay," He promised the room.

"Promise?" Cassie whimpered. He didn't know if she believed him, would actually have faith in him, in his word, but he nodded anyway.

"Promise." God, he hoped he could manage it this time.

 

* * *

 

Derek watched the pendulum jerk and spin over the map, moving erratically. When it finally slowed and settled, he felt his stomach bottom out, the slick itch of blood sliding down his fingers and pooling in his palms.

"Goddamn sonofabitch," Stiles ground out, clenched fist shifting on the map and creasing it.

"What?" Miles demanded.

"The loft." He had to force the words out, hard and fast. Otherwise he might choke on them.

"She wouldn't go there willingly," Chris told them. "This is-" The hunter paused, looking first at him and then at Stiles, a wealth of unsaid things in his gaze. Derek didn't want to hear any of it.

"Speculation later," Stiles muttered, holding up the last pendulum, a clumsy looking thing. "Derek, I need some blood."

He took the offered knife and swiped the edge across his palm, quick and deep. Too deep. Stiles was glaring at him, obviously pissed off. It hadn't been intentional. It hadn't. Derek just- He wasn't sure he could even feel pain at the moment, his body numbing itself, waiting for a blow that wouldn't come (had come years before). Stiles cursed, heaped insults on his head before switching to muttering out the proper rune.

It swung to the same spot as before, the street where the loft was located.

"Who goes where?" Stiles asked, making a visible effort to hold himself together.

"You're not going after Scott." That was nonnegotiable. He'd throw Stiles in a holding cell if he had to, had a feeling John would help.

"Because _Allison_ is going to be any better?"

Not particularly.

"Easier to stun and not as fast," Derek said, willing himself to believe it. "You should be on Scott," He added, staring Argent down. An argument was coming, he knew it, and they didn't have the time.

"My daughter-"

"Because she's your daughter. If she is being manipulated, Stiles won't hesitate to stun her. You will. You're also experienced in take down and capture of wolves. We need Scott alive. Cas, Payton, you're with Stiles. Miles, with me and Argent." Because Allison wouldn't know about Minchians, wouldn't know how to take one down, at least not easily. It had nothing to do with the fact that he might actually have a psychotic break if he went back to the loft. Nothing.

"Dude, Scott-"

"I can give him something to pay attention to while Chris and Miles trap him." He braced himself for another argument.

"You're playing the _bait_? That's a shit plan. Like, right up there with every fucking plan we had back in high school. It's worse than the arm thing."

Of course Stiles would bring that up.

"Arm thing?" Cassie asked, staring owlishly. The entire room seemed to expect an answer.

His terse explanation of 'Wolfsbane poisoning' was almost drowned out entirely by Stiles' flailing declaration of 'He wanted me to cut it off!'. Miles and Cassie both looked ready to be sick and Payton started cursing in Gaelic. John looked like he might actually pull his gun on him. They'd come so far. Wasted. Retribution was on it's way, no doubt. John was inventive, proving that Stiles' penchant for sarcasm wasn't the only thing he'd inherited from his father.

"It'll work," Chris interjected, looking unhappy, which was almost pleasing. It gave Derek something to focus on, at least. Something that was not Stiles' father. "John?" Damn.

"I'm with Stiles. Melissa-"

They made arrangements and began getting ready to head out. Derek handed Stiles his keys and followed Chris out, not daring to look back. Miles was right behind him, muttering obscenities under his breath.

 _Shit_. He'd forgotten about Miles and hunters. How had he forgotten?

"I'm sorry," He sighed, dropping back to Miles' side.

"Nah, it makes sense," Miles admitted. "Still. An Argent."

"He's not like the others." Not anymore, at least. Whatever new code Allison had dreamed up, he supposedly followed it. Not that the code gave Derek much comfort. Codes were vague and made to be interpreted loosely.

"He's still a hunter," Miles shrugged. Derek didn't try to offer anything in Chris' defense. He didn't have much to offer. Derek's experience with the hunter had summed itself up in a few words. 'Too little, too late.' Chris was good at remaining passive, ignoring what he didn't want to look at until it couldn't be ignored.

They drove out to the preserve, close to where the pendulum had pointed. Chris parked on the the side of a service road and got out, heading for the hatch. Derek immediately smelled the fresh wave of wolfsbane from the back following the click of a safe opening.

"Retired, huh?" Miles drawled, his mouth a lazy slash in his face. Derek prayed he didn't provoke Chris. He wasn't in the state of mind to mediate an argument, especially not one between them. He doubted anyone could find a state of mind suitable for that catastrophe. "Looks like you're armed for bear."

Derek rolled his eyes at Miles and walked into the woods, scenting the air as he walked.

Slight traces of wolf. Just one, barely recognizable. Scott's scent hadn't been priority for a long time, but it hadn't really changed much. A little muskier, which came with age. But otherwise the same. Oak sap, crisp leaves, something sweet and something biting and sharp. He followed it until it stopped, faded entirely. Strange.

"Miles?"

"It just stops here," Miles muttered, peering into the forest around them. "Can't get anything."

"Think something erased it?"

"Stiles said different areas have been distorted."

"I'll go upwind, do your thing."

When he could no longer hear Miles' heartbeat, he looked around, up, scented the air again.

The first roar wasn't a drastic thing, just a call, wolf to wolf. If Scott was attacking people, he'd be a prime target. An enemy werewolf in the middle of the territory.

But Scott didn't come. Fifteen minutes passed, nothing but listless, anxious waiting.

Derek inhaled sharply, couldn't smell anything at all, not even Miles. Disconcerted, he stared into the forest, tried to pinpoint Miles' location, and failing that, Argent's. There was nothing. It was easy to tell that there was magic, even if he didn't feel the telltale sensation that always accompanied the magic Stiles created.

Stiles. He thought about the black stitches lining the pale skin of Stiles' chest. More scars to contend with. More fucking wounds that Stiles would see every time he looked in a mirror. Scott's fault. _Again_.

The roar that he let loose was a challenge, derisive and hateful. Years of pent up frustration rang out, wove through the trees. Scott had always been a blind child, and for all that Stiles might forgive him (might already have forgiven), Derek wasn't sure he ever would. He hadn't even _liked_ Stiles when they'd parted ways and he'd still taken responsibility for him. Scott never had.

Another challenge echoed in the air. Scott was an alpha, had chosen to defy and Risen because of it. He should have acted like an alpha, taken responsibility instead of hiding.

The next call was furious, full of recrimination, of blame.

Scott didn't show.

Of course he didn't.

By the time Miles and Chris made their way over, scents had returned, although he'd been too angry to notice when. Scott's scent was entirely obliterated, lost as if it had never been there.

"They found Allison and Issac. This is a wash."

He wanted to protest, but the evidence spoke for itself. Scott hadn't shown, hadn't answered the threat Derek had trumpeted like a madman, half feral himself. Chris was already walking through the woods to his SUV, movements impressively quiet, even to Derek's ears.

"You okay?" Miles asked quietly.

Probably not. "I'll live."

"Will he?" The skinwalker snorted, sounding entirely too pragmatic for the question to be rhetorical.

"Maybe." He wasn't going to make promises if Stiles got hurt again.

 

* * *

 

Derek felt for Melissa, he did. Two people had been returned home, but while Chris was allowed to bask in the knowledge that his daughter was alive and safe, if not completely stable or sane, Melissa had to watch and wonder where her son was.

For all that he did pity her (Melissa was a decent woman, even if her son was an idiot) he didn't know what to say to her. John was easy, because they'd always have one thing in common; Stiles' well being. It had made everything else a little less awkward. But he didn't have that connection with Melissa. She was probably well aware that he was only there because Stiles had come. If he'd been in her shoes, he probably would have felt threatened by the influx of people taking over the situation, only one of them holding Scott's continued existence above all else.

Which was why it was so surprising when she limped over to him, looking like she just wanted to collapse and sleep for a month. Derek had been attacked by family before. He could empathize.

"Stiles' bandages need to be changed," She murmured softly.

Oh. That was-Actually considerate of her, he supposed. Maybe it was the nurse in her. He moved to follow through when she stopped him, a light hand on his forearm.

"I was there when Deaton stitched him up."

It took a moment for it to register, her meaning almost lost in what seemed to be an innocent statement of fact. But what she was implying-No. Derek understood scars and wounds better than Melissa ever could, and discussing Stiles' scars was tantamount to betrayal. He was shaking her hand off when she started talking again.

"I just wanted to say thank you. John said you helped him. I'm glad you did."

He stared at her, struck dumb by the sincere, naked gratitude in her expression. Melissa meant what she was saying, and that more than anything made him wish he'd said something years before, when Stiles had been in the middle of it. Melissa, at least, would have helped him, like she'd helped Cora and Issac. It had been a mistake on his part to forget.

'You're welcome' seemed false, somehow. Wrong. Lacking anything to say (forever his problem) he offered a brief, understanding nod. Then he fled, because gratitude, no matter what for, would never stop being awkward.

Stiles and Cassie were passed out on an old, lumpy couch in the office. He hated to wake them, liked that they felt safe enough to actually sleep, even if it was next to a gun safe. Derek mentally sighed and shook Stiles' shoulder. Groggy, sleep hazed eyes blinked open and slowly focused on him.

"Melissa said it's time to change your bandages."

"Lovely," Stiles groaned. "How'd it go?"

Derek shook his head in the negative. No Scott.

Cassie growled softly and opened her eyes, sleep blurred and annoyed at being woken up.

"Bandage time," Derek told her. Cassie's sleepy stare shifted into an outright glare before she nodded tightly and got up, stalking out of the room. He knew better than to think it was directed at him. Aside from dealing with the hunters the year before, she'd never been forced to deal with the aftermath of a fight. Derek hoped she'd never have to get used to it. Stiles questioning gaze followed her out of the room and then swung back to him.

Derek shifted, uncomfortable. "She looked under them when we got here and Miles had to tackle her to keep her from going after Scott. Took awhile to get her calmed down." He got up at that, not wanting to see what Stiles thought of one best friend wanting to kill another.

"Oh," Sounded softly behind him, Stiles' footsteps shuffling after him as he walked to the bathroom down the hall, where Melissa had set everything up for them. It was a small room, claustrophobically so, made all the worse by watching Stiles begin to divest himself of jacket and holster, then the shirt (Derek's shirt), and laying them over the back of the toilet.

He kept his touch impersonal, clinical, because otherwise he might break down, as angry as Cassie with no one to hold him back. Stiles' body shivered when the cold metal of the scissors slid beneath the bandages, against his skin. Derek pressed his hand against Stiles' tattoo, tried to pull the pain out even as he focused on his work. When Stiles balled them up and tossed them in the trashcan, Derek inspected the lines of sutures.

They looked awful, would probably always look like something out of a nightmare, but they weren't infected. "Can you wash them, or do you need me to do it?"

"I'm fine."

Derek didn't remove his hand from Stiles' side, as much to steal the pain as an effort to remind himself that Stiles wasn't a hallucination, that he'd survived the attack. Solid, steady reassurance, despite the fact that a wolf had pulled claws down his chest, the first, toying, halfhearted attempts at evisceration. Derek recognized the move, knew that it wasn't a killing blow. What that implied didn't do anything for the quietly burning rage he was attempting to suppress.

"Hey man, it's fine. They're good. Not too much seepage or anything. Unless you can smell infection. Can you? I never asked anyone, but Scott could smell cancer so-" Stiles babbled, noticing the frown directed at the little black threads knotted in the seams of the ruptured flesh.

"They're not infected," Derek told him, voice quiet. "I hate this place."

"I feel ya." Derek appreciated Stiles' attempts at sounding unaffected, but he wasn't an idiot. "Come on, I'm ready to go to the ball."

Jesus. Of course he'd go for levity. Stiles wouldn't be Stiles if his sense of humor was in any way appropriate. Still, it was something besides the multitude of thin black lines holding his skin together. Seamed like a doll. Derek reached for the gauze.

"I'm not your fairy godmother," He muttered.

"Huh, true. I'm the magic one so-"

"You're not my fairy godmother Stiles," Derek informed him smartly, ignoring the strange stutter of Stiles' heart, how his body twitched when he began wrapping his torso, tight enough to compress the skin.

"Lies. You're totally my princess."

"I don't attract singing woodland creatures." He gave the opening, if only because Stiles' babbling sarcastically was a Stiles that wasn't having a panic attack or thinking about his brother coming after him.

"No, only the violent ones. Just my luck."

"Wouldn't that make you my knight? Or does the magic stick you with the fairy part?"

"Obvious allusions to my sexuality aside, maybe."

Derek wasn't going to go there. "You suck at your job."

"You're just jealous that I can rock a tiara."

The laugh huffed out, a plosive breath of air that tried to prove that he wasn't angry, wasn't uncomfortable or uncomfortably aware all at once. Stiles leaned against the sink and watched him intently, which only served to raise Derek's awareness of him. Apparently both of them had issues with appropriate timing.

When he finished, he allowed himself to look up, meet Stiles' stare head on.

"Hey, it'll be okay, right? We're going to be fine," Stiles said, and obvious (and poor) attempt at reassurance. Derek could tell he didn't entirely believe what he was saying.

"You never leave this place without more scars," He said, the words escaping before he could bury them back down, somewhere deep and dark. "I never leave without," He slammed his mouth shut hard enough that his teeth caught his tongue, the taste of copper flooding his mouth. Looking at the floor was easier than letting Stiles see the paranoia that had been slowly whittling away at his resolve.

Who would he lose this time?

"It's not going to happen this time," Stiles promised. Derek let him slide his arms around his shoulders, pulling him in, "We're all going to finish this in one piece, and then we're going to Marl's to gorge ourselves on curly fries and burgers. We'll eat so much he'll run out of food and cry. It almost happened when Cas and I went there."

Derek almost wished he'd been there for that. Cassie and Stiles could be assholes, delighting in other people's obvious distress, but it was pretty harmless, and he wanted to see them laughing again, wanted to see them safe. Derek held Stiles carefully, far too aware of the stitches, of how easily he could break Stiles. How Stiles would probably let him, if it came to it.

"I'll even let my dad order whatever he wants. And then we'll go to Shaw's, because we need to regroup before we try to face Caroline. We'll be lazy and drink his hot chocolate and cuddle and we're going to be fine."

That sounded wonderful. Shaw's would be their reward, if they survived the whole thing intact. He'd even let Miles and Payton follow them, god knew the pair deserved some time off, Christmas rush be damned.

"We're all going to be okay."

Derek nodded, a small twitch of his neck more than anything. He willed himself to believe what Stiles was saying. Stiles shaped the world based on belief. Maybe if he believed it, Stiles might start to.

"Come on," Stiles urged, ruining the moment by knocking his body hip against Derek's. "We can try and plan with Chris and outvote him."

That would be entertaining. Truth be told, annoying Chris Argent had become his consolation prize for coming back, a little bonus that kept him from losing his mind entirely.

"Caroline and Marianne are going to mother you once we get back."

"Nah, they're going to come down on me like the fist of an angry god," Stiles snorted. "Rick too." The words lilted, the sound of laughter bubbling up as he directed a sly look in Derek's direction. Derek knew what was coming.

He slipped a hand over Stiles' mouth, felt the smile forming against the skin of his palm. "Don't say it," He warned.

The 'say what' was muffled, and the attempt at innocence was absurd, Stiles' eyes dancing with suppressed laughter.

"It's a dog joke. No."

The rolled eyes and shrug were followed by a puff of air blowing against his palm, a sigh of defeat. Or obedience. Derek let his hand slowly drop down, half expecting Stiles to say it anyway.

"You're just mad I thought of it first."

"I'm really not," Derek sighed.

(Five minutes later, he cursed when he realized that, once again, the whole situation was his fault. Deucalion. God damn his halfhearted attempt at being the better man. He was a wolf, and he should have remembered to act that way.)

 

* * *

 

Lydia had never expected to come back. Never. Not for holidays (her parents preferred to find new and exciting places for that, places that involved vineyards or galleries). Not for vacations (one did not vacation at home) and not for a crisis, because it had been made perfectly clear to her how little she actually belonged, how much some of the people in Beacon Hills cared. (If that was caring, apparently her parents still loved each other after all. _Aww_.)

But Stiles had gone back. Stiles, who had suffered just as much as she had in the aftermath of the sacrifice. He had even less reason to return, more reason to ignore any cries for help than she did. And he'd gone back anyway.

Once, she'd thought him the world's biggest idiot. He'd barely known her, and yet trusted her enough to pull him back, to bring him back from the dead. It had only proven how young and stupid they'd been. He for loving a mirage, she for being quietly flattered by it.

But then the world had broken. She'd been chained down, bound up to people that she'd cared about, a little. But she wasn't built to sacrifice her wants for others, had been shown, at a very young age how foolish it was to give up life long ideals for the notion of love. (When Stiles had fled, had found a way out, she'd hated him, hated how he was free and she wasn't.)

Except he hadn't been. Stiles had never, ever been free. He was probably more knotted and tangled into the pack than she'd ever been, even after he'd left, taken oaths and sworn himself to another pack. Even banned, he wasn't allowed to just forget, to move on.

Neither of them were.

Stiles had forgiven her for hating him, for misjudging him so completely. Stiles had changed, and she'd been stupid to expect the same flailing, annoying child he'd been before he'd drowned himself, just like she'd been stupid to think she'd been the same after holding him under.

Neither of them were perfect, but they'd found a way to fit together. Not as lovers. Some things just didn't work, wouldn't work. But friends, she liked to think. They were friends in a way she'd never had a friend before, and maybe never would again. He'd looked at her ambition and told her there was nothing to be forgiven, because her dreams were her own, and she'd spent her whole life working towards them.

It had been better than Allison's forgiveness, because Stiles had shown her that it was okay to want, that dreams and hopes and hard work weren't sins to begin with.

She waited patiently outside the wards, perusing them carefully. Idiot. According to Cassie, Stiles had been hurt, was recovering, and diverting energy away from healing. But the wards were a good idea, were impressive, even to her. Her friend had learned things, some of them secrets that would otherwise be denied to her. Except Stiles shared, delighted in offering knowledge and receiving it. Debating with him was one of her favorite pastimes, if only because he didn't fold when their perceptions clashed on intangibles that couldn't be proven.

They were still on two ends of a spectrum, but they fit on either side of a coin quite neatly, coexisting.

Cassie slipped out onto the front porch, crept down, all predatory grace. Lydia liked her, appreciated that someone else had taken one look at a responsibility they hadn't wanted and rebelled. Even if it wasn't what Lydia would have done, at least Cassie had done _something_. It was more effort than she had made.

"How's he doing?" Lydia asked quietly, accepting the necklace. Another bit of Stiles' magic, another ingenious invention she would probably never, ever use. Unlike him, she didn't have infinite pieces of herself to spare. Just enough for him, just enough to come back when he was in trouble.

"He's asleep right now, cuddled up to Derek."

"Have they finally stopped being idiots?" Passing through the wards felt like walking through a thin veil of mist, the sound of Stiles humming brushing over his skin. Comforting, his absentminded habit giving proof of life.

"Not yet," Cassie snorted.

A common bond, the one thing they would always agree on and bitch about. Because Derek and Stiles were stupid for each other. She'd never known two people could be in unrequited love with each other, but somehow those two idiots had pulled it off. Well, Derek and Stiles had always managed to accomplish the impossible.

She gave the necklace back and followed the wolf inside, felt several presences, some she recognized, some she didn't. One in particular made her nod at Cassie, a quiet command to go ahead, before swerving into the living room.

"I didn't think they'd call you." No greetings, no pleasantries. Deaton didn't deserve them.

"Stiles felt it best to have everyone working together."

"And are we?" She demanded sharply. Deaton had always been difficult to read, but she'd intentionally gone out of her way, outside of the rules, to learn how. And no matter how paranoid it made her Magister, she hadn't, wouldn't, stop.

Lydia would never lose control, never be a pawn ever again.

"We are not at cross purposes," Deaton said. Lydia bit back a scream. Deaton had always brought out the worst in her, and the fact that he'd used her, used Stiles, so cruelly only made it worse. His diplomatic half truths echoed times past, when she'd been so sure that she was supposed to be an emissary, that self sacrifice was her only option. It had taken time, to realize his machinations. Time, where Stiles had remained silent, let her choose without influence. Another disparity between the two. Deaton's influence, Stiles' quiet reservation. The dichotomy would be laughable, it it hadn't almost ruined her life and Stiles in the process.

(She'd been an idiot in so many ways, but not questioning Deaton's motivations would always be her worst sin.)

"You're a bastard," She told him, voice cold. Tessa's language was rubbing off on her. "You manipulated us, you used me to hurt Stiles."

"You know that our work sometimes requires sacrifices," He said calmly.

"It was unforgivable," She bit out. "I don't care what your justification was. And if you even attempt something so grossly unethical again, I will break you open so completely Badb will envy me."

"I have no intention of harming or otherwise using those gathered here."

"I know what intention means," She snarled, angry that that he was still so calm, acting like she wasn't a threat when they both knew she could be. "I won't judge you based on your _intentions_." Just his actions. And she almost hoped he misstepped, made a mistake. She'd lost more than he could ever comprehend, all because of _good intentions_. Emissary vows were absolute, in their way, less forgiving than a hunter's Code. But for all that, they were still convenient justification for any number of sins. "Valdyr has an accord with my magister. If anything happens to them because of you, I'll claim privilege and give _you_ to the nemeton." And she'd make sure he was stuck there, lost in the currents, bound to Beacon Hills like he'd tried to do to her.

It seemed like a fitting punishment.

When she walked back out to the kitchen, she saw a dark haired- _Something._ Not human, but not wolf. The veil wrapped around him was too solid, glamoured his true nature completely. He was eying her with a mix of curiosity and admiration.

Cassie's smile was all teeth.

"Lydia Martin, I presume?" The stranger asked, tilting his head.

"And you would be?"

"Payton," He said, nodding his head in greeting. "Huh. A woman of the mist. Of course Beacon Hills would have one."

Lydia hadn't heard _that_ title used outside of books. Interesting.

"Stiles doesn't know how to meet normal people," Cassie said, smirking.

Lydia smiled. That at least was true.

(The next day, she saw the scars for the first time since learning of their existence. It made her side ache, the lines where Peter's teeth had torn her skin bothering her for the first time in over a year.)

 

* * *

 

Derek had expected an argument, expected accusations. Issac had always lingered in the back of his mind. Stiles hadn't known what he'd said when he'd called Derek a parent, if only as a metaphor. But Issac was still his, in a way, would always be his. Even after he'd disavowed Derek and chosen Scott, the link between them had remained. Dimmed, maybe, but there. Even after he'd fallen from Alpha, it had lingered.

Issac may or may not have felt it, but Derek did, doubted he wouldn't stop feeling it. Not unless one of them died. It was why the death of a beta was so much harder to bear than the shame, the anger of losing them to another pack. Nothing could compare to that. (Even in denial, the pain had ripped through him, a hollow echo of where she'd been.) He still felt Jackson too, knew the beta was settled, even happy.

What he hadn't braced himself for was the stinging blow of Jennifer, of Kate. Issac's words found their mark with ridiculous ease, thoughtlessly effortless.

God, Issac must completely hate him. And it wasn't entirely undeserved. Derek remembered the glass, had done it intentionally because he hadn't wanted to lose another beta. He just hadn't known how to get him out, to make the break complete without drawing on Issac's worst fears. He'd made himself a monster. It would be wrong to be hurt that Issac treated him like one.

So he took it, was willing to take it.

"You sound like your father."

Derek felt his world dim, felt the shadows reaching out from the past. Eerie, the magic Stiles was pulling slithered over his skin, recognized because he'd felt Stiles doing it before, remembered the pressure that had made the air thick and heavy when he'd put a taboo on the land, forced Scott out of Caroline's territory.

He wanted to grab Stiles, to tell him to stop, but he couldn't make himself move.

Stiles was defending him. Juxtaposition, the memory of Stiles yelling at him in the hospital, throwing Kate and Jennifer in his face, grinding his nose in it like a puppy. Stiles standing up for him to Issac.

Stiles calling him family, baring his teeth and snarling viciously, a show of support that made the world stagger around him.

Lydia spoke, her voice wickedly calm and poisonously sweet. Finding the chinks in Issac's armor and savaging the vulnerable spots.

Issac fleeing. Chris trying to call them out and failing, because Stiles would forgive the people he loved almost anything, but the people he didn't consider his were fucked. And Lydia would back Stiles.

Jesus Christ, he'd been right. They were terrifying when they worked together. More frightening than any wolf or hunter. Payton echoed the sentiment even as the shadows faded, slithered back from where they'd come. Derek moved swiftly, smoothed his hand over tiles' hair and let it rest at the nape of his neck.

Control. Anchor. Pull back. Hold steady. He wouldn't let Stiles do something he regretted again.

(He heard Stiles say 'I'm not sorry for it' to his dad, and wondered what he'd done to gain such vicious protection.)

 

* * *

 

Issac stared at the carnage around him, the fallen bodies and Stiles weaving unsteadily, gun held in the air.

His shoulder throbbed, the black of unconsciousness beckoned, tried to pull him back down.

Stiles was hunched over Derek, staring down at the gaping hole of his stomach, the mess of ground meat that should have been flesh. "Oh god," He choked out, remembered.

Scott.

Issac closed his eyes, could only see the image of his alpha bearing down on him. His shoulder throbbed in time to the memory. It felt like claws ripping him open all over again.

Scott.

His world was falling apart beneath him. Allison potentially trying to hurt him, Scott feral and actually hurting him, Scott trying to kill the others. For all that Issac hated Stiles, Scott loved him. It had been the hardest thing to swallow, almost impossible to accept because Stiles kept hurting Scott, and Scott still wouldn't hear a word against him. (It was a devotion Issac had always craved, utter and absolute. Just as he craved it, he knew it would never, ever be his.)

Scott had attacked Stiles, had hurt Lydia. And the mess of Derek's stomach resulted from the sort of mindless violence, borderline sadism, that Scott had always abhorred.

Miles stalked back into the clearing, naked and covered in blood and dirt. Issac swallowed the gorge that rose up his throat. When Miles pointed at Derek and told him to carry him, he nodded dumbly. What else was there to do?

(He could break down, give in. The promise of shattering offered a peace he'd never experienced, a chance to run away from the scent of Scott, from Scott's scent lingering on him, mingling with his blood.)

When he moved to get Derek, Stiles bared his teeth, as viciously mad and desperately protective as any wolf in freefall. The gun pointed at his head was a stark reminder that despite their alliance, Stiles only saw an enemy. A threat.

"Stiles," Miles growled, voice still throaty from anger and adrenaline. "He won't hurt him, or _I'll_ kill him. We need to get Derek somewhere safe."

Why wasn't Stiles running after Scott, like he always had? They needed-

Scott's red eyes flashed, bright behind his eyelids. He hadn't even felt his alpha, just-Just hate, the same look his father had always gotten before dragging him down the stairs and throwing him in the freezer.

 _Monstrous_.

Stiles lowered the gun and nodded slowly. Issac leaned down, grabbed Derek's arm and leg and hefted him into a fireman's carry. The pained sound that escaped as his shoulder was jostled was muffled into nothing more than a grunt before it left his mouth.

"Can you drive?" Miles asked Stiles. Like he wasn't even there, didn't warrant notice. Stiles nodded. "Do we go to the emissary?"

"No," Issac said. He felt his world tilt and tip. "Scott can get past mountain ash." And if Scott was willing to hurt him-

Jesus. He was Second, and he had no idea what to do. Scott was supposed to be safe, to be strong and untouchable. Scott had promised to never hurt him, to never be like Derek or his dad. Scott had _promised_.

"Lydia's." Stiles confirmed, already walking away. Because there was nothing else to do, Issac followed. After they got there and Stiles rooted for Derek's keys, Issac noticed how calm Stiles was. He recognized that calm, knew it because he'd felt it before, the calm that made his anger feel so pure, so right. It had taken years to process his past, to push through it. But even he couldn't escape the cold, soothing wash of distilled rage. Not when it made the world still.

Worried that he might get shot anyway, he followed Stiles' directions, laid Derek out across the back seat and got in the passenger side. He leaned back in the seat, kept his eyes clenched tightly shut.

Unfortunately, his mouth had a way of ignoring his self preservation instincts. It had been a problem in the past.

"You would have shot me." Stiles had handled the gun with an easy familiarity that reminded him of Chris, and that was an uncomfortable comparison if there ever was one. Stiles was supposed to be the uncoordinated, flailing idiot of them all, the one that wrecked his car or used a baseball bat. Stiles had always been a blunt instrument, nothing at all like Chris. _Except_ -

"Yes." There was no lie, no tell tale trip of Stiles' heartbeat. Just cold, unflinching honesty.

"For Derek."

"Yes."

"Why?" _Why not Scott? Why Derek? Why someone so undeserving? Why would you give up your own brother for_ him _?_

"He's pack," Stiles snarled, as if the question had been an accusation. And maybe it had been. Issac couldn't understand how Stiles could discard Scott, who loved him so completely, so faithfully, for someone like Derek.

It made him hate Stiles a little more.

When Derek groaned in the back seat, the truck swerved violently, making the beta groan again. Issac muttered out a quiet 'watch the road' and bent over the back seat to assess the damage. As much as he hated Derek, Derek was part of a bigger pack, and there to help them. If he died, his alpha could, and by the way Chris said it, probably would, start a war. One they would lose. Especially with Scott gone.

But Derek's nostrils flared, his eyes slits of glowing blue before he snarled angrily, not in warning, but as a threat. _Get away from me._

Issac slid back in his seat. If Derek was well enough to make death threats, he'd live. At least that much hadn't changed.

When they got back to the house, everyone had a purpose, people blurs of motions and commands. Everyone except him.

Allison was inside, still asleep. Allison, who might be in trouble in a way he couldn't help. Just like Scott. God, he was losing everything, watching it slide through his fingers like sand. The harder he tried to hold it, the faster it escaped, reason upon reason compounding until he could only see Scott's red eyes filled with hatred. The keening sound started in his chest, mournful and deep.

"Stop." Stiles sounded furious. Cold eyes bore into him, the stare of someone used to being obeyed. _Emissary_. "Go inside and stay out of the way."

Like he was a _child_. Stiles didn't wait for a response, stalked into the house and slammed the door behind him.

 

* * *

 

Scott paused, sniffing the air. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, and he could feel eyes on him, watching him. Turning slowly, he breathed in, tried to find the source of the sensation.

At first it was vague, like something slowly being revealed. But the putrid stench of rot and terror soon became overwhelming. Voices echoed, quiet at first, just as the scents had been, gaining volume with each beat of his heart.

Snarling, he followed the scents, even though they weren't Allison or Issac's. They were still afraid, still screaming for their lives. And he was getting closer, his movements gaining momentum.

A wall of scent and sound hit, pressed down on him.

He tried to snarl, to push back but looked around and there was nothing there, the scent and screaming coming from everywhere but nowhere, only getting worse. Anguish spiraled out of control, tried to drag him down. Scott reeled, tried to run but couldn't outrun the despair reaching out, gripping fingers around his heart.

Hatred, blood, terror, panic, polluted water and ash filled his nose, his mouth, suffocated him. The world passed in a blur, lights sharp like stars in his eyes. Something heavy and solid hit him, threw him back. Stone and briars pressed into his back, threaded beneath his skin and tried to keep him down.

Scott howled, felt cold hands slipping over his skin, a wire pressing into his skin like a noose.

Phantom pains stabbed and clubbed, bruised and shredded his flesh, driving him away from the lights and people scents into the forest. Nothing abated, only morphed into different sensations, different deaths trying to capture him. Blind panic drove him deeper into the forest, desperately searching for the fresh wet scent of pure earth and old growth. He could smell it, getting closer-

When he stumbled into the eye of the storm, where the was peace, he almost dropped from the abrupt change. The pressure was gone, the awful voices and feelings. When he looked down at himself, he was surprised to see that he still had skin, that it hadn't been flayed off. Bloodless. Unless he was hallucinating, had finally gone into shock.

Rustling. He looked around, saw Stiles-

"Stiles?"

He inhaled, the smell of sweat and burnt ozone tinged by adderall flooding his nostrils. Stiles was there. Relief crashed down on him, made him even dizzier as he regarded his brother. Stiles was there. Scott had never been so happy to see anyone in his entire life. Stiles had come, for whatever reason. Things were going to be okay.

Stiles wouldn't let it be any other way.

"This is a sedative," Stiles said, holding out a vial of powder. "Will you take it willingly?"

Scott looked at the vial, at Stiles. There had to be a reason, right? Stiles wouldn't-Even with everything so wrong between them, Stiles wouldn't make the offer, wouldn't ask him to take it unless it was necessary.

He moved forward, tried to take it. When he was stopped, he looked down and frowned. It didn't smell like mountain ash, and mountain ash couldn't contain him. They'd tested it more than once. But this-It felt like an actual wall, humming with electricity. Instead of asking (trust, he had to trust, he'd made the mistake of not trusting before) he held out his hand, just inside the barrier.

There was a strange, angry sound behind him when Stiles reached into the circle and dropped the vial in his hand. It had barely made contact when Stiles jerked his hand away, as if burned. Scott couldn't stop his body from flinching at the realization that Stiles was so desperate not to touch him, either too afraid or too angry to even risk grazing contact.

"It's an inhalant, or you can swallow it."

Scott looked at Stiles, saw exhaustion and fear, barely repressed anger and overwhelming remorse. Blood clung to him, mixed with the blood scent of others. A bruise lingered below his skin, barely tinging the area around his temple. Stiles had gotten hurt, had been looking for him for-For what looked like _days_.

(He'd been gone for _days_ , and he couldn't even remember.)

Scott pulled the cork free and put the vial to his lips. The mixture was strangely sweet as it hit his tongue. It was difficult to swallow powder without anything to wash it down, his throat protesting. Within seconds he could taste something bitter, disgustingly so. But he opened his mouth, lifted his tongue to show Stiles that it was gone.

Stiles worried him by looking relieved.

Even as the darkness began to haze his vision, he saw Issac, saw Deaton and someone he didn't recognize. Stiles had found Issac, Issac who was staring at him, worried and afraid of him. His last conscious thought was to silently thank his brother for finding the beta and keeping him safe.

 

* * *

 

Allison ignored the blatant glare of Payton (whatever he was, and that made her uncomfortable, made her itch for her crossbow, the solid line of the knife under her jacket not nearly enough) as she got into the car, slamming the door behind her. Melissa was quiet, but Melissa had never quite warmed up to her, not like it had been before the first breakup. Even though she'd tried, even before Stiles had done whatever it was that had turned Melissa and John against them, Melissa hadn't liked her.

Allison tried not to be bothered by the fact that now even the pretense of civility was gone. Melissa had never shied away from speaking her mind, but at least she'd been polite. _Now_ though-

Now everyone was listening to _Stiles_ , who had swooped in at just the right moment. It was entirely too suspect, and even her father seemed blind to the possibility that it was all a trap. Stiles had learned magic and suffered the same darkness she did. It was a volatile, dangerous combination, and no one seemed to be examining it too closely. She'd been watched like a hawk, been forced to read through case files and to look at pictures of dead children to keep her grounded in reality. Stiles hadn't been trained at all.

He even had motive. Stiles obviously blamed her for Gerard kidnapping him, for Erica and Boyd. He probably still resented her for taking Scott away from him, even though it hadn't been intentional. She'd never tried to separate them, not until calling for the ban, and that had been to protect Scott, after Stiles had proven how needlessly cruel he could be. Stiles had every reason to hurt them, to hurt the pack, and apparently the ability to carry it out. So why was everyone just ignoring it?

Stiles had even turned the territory against Scott. It was the ultimate betrayal, ousting Scott from his own home. Issac had said Stiles and Payton had undone it but-

But Stiles and Derek worked together, the entire group all one closely knit circle of trust. How could any of them be trusted?

"You know, if you glare any harder, you're going to melt a hole in my windshield," Melissa said conversationally.

"Can we not do this in the car?" Payton asked from the back seat, sounding exhausted. "This is between you two."

"I'm sure you'll survive jumping," Allison bit out. Creatures were nothing if not durable.

"Lydia wouldn't," Payton reminded her, frowning from the back seat.

"Lydia's care is Payton's responsibility," Melissa said, just as Allison opened her mouth. The words hit home, twisting like a well aimed knife. Melissa trusted a stranger more than her. Another thing Stiles had done.

"Lydia is my friend, and-"

"And nothing," Melissa interrupted. "It's supernatural politics. Considering that her coven leader and Stiles' alpha can hold us responsible if anything happens to her, I'm willing to let Payton keep taking care of her." _Not you_ seemed to be heavily implied.

"We don't even know him." He could be a wendigo for all they knew.

"Stiles does," Melissa answered simply, like that was enough for her. And how could it be?

"How can you even say that?" Allison snapped, tired of the Saint Stiles routine everyone seemed to be buying into. "Stiles lied to everyone, he _betrayed Scott_."

Melissa pulled the car over to the side of the road, ignoring the traffic that whizzed by. Allison almost buckled beneath the furious gaze pinning her down. In the last week alone she'd been the focus of one temper after another, and it was beyond wrong that she was being turned on for pointing out what could very well be a trap.

"You are the most hypocritical, self righteous, self centered human being I've ever met. And I went on a date with _Peter Hale_ ," Melissa barked. "You _hunted_ my son and his friends. You literally tortured kids your own age. You stabbed Issac and led a raid on my husband's office while he was unconscious and I was trapped in a cell. I was right there. And I don't care why you did it. _You hurt my boys_ , and you haven't stopped trying since the moment you woke up. Stiles brought my son back to me, and he's doing his best to help all of us. So put on your big girl panties, or I'll ask my husband to put you in a holding cell until this is over. Capisce?"

"You aren't even considering the possibility that Stiles is the one doing this!" Allison protested incredulously. How could Melissa cling so tightly to her sins and ignore Stiles' so completely?

"Let me tell you something," Melissa said, voice going quiet and dangerously soft. "I've known Stiles since he was four years old. In all that time, he's shown that he can be oblivious, sarcastic, and even mean. But he's never, ever been cruel. Especially not to Scott. When it comes to my son's life, I trust Stiles."

Allison heard the addendum, couldn't help but see how Melissa stared at her like she was, had always been a threat to Scott. It wasn't fair, how her past kept getting thrown in her face but Stiles got a free pass, especially when Stiles had lied for years, had proven he was capable of drawing out a deceit until it would cause the most damage. Stiles had crippled the pack, his defection like a domino setting all the others in motion. As much as she'd disliked the twins, they'd left and _died_. Danny was alone, and Scott had been left with no one but her and Issac. Stiles had even turned _Melissa_ against Scott. If that didn't prove how manipulative, how relentlessly spiteful and vindictive he was, what would?

"And if he hurts Scott?" She finally managed.

"He won't."

Melissa turned her gaze back onto the road, checked her mirrors and pulled into traffic.

The rest of the drive was spent in silence. Payton carried Lydia in through the ambulance dock, sneaking her into a room where Melissa could begin working. When the nurse left,intent on filing paperwork, Allison turned on Payton, ready to say her peace. However, he started speaking before she could, almost as if anticipating it.

"I'm not afraid of you," Payton said in a quiet voice, not even bothering to look at her. "I won't pretend you're not dangerous, because you are. And in another life, your whole anti-trust thing might actually be worth listening to."

"But?" Allison demanded.

"But it occurs to me that Stiles isn't the only witch with a reason to hold a grudge against your pack. And of the two, Lydia is the one who seems to live in a moral gray area, and she's a lot more pissed off. Yet Stiles is the only one you're looking at. Lydia never even crossed your mind, did it?"

"Lydia wouldn't do this to us,"Allison bit out.

"You're so sure?"

Allison nodded tightly. Lydia was her friend. Even if they'd become distant, it was natural. Lydia had a coven, and Allison had the pack, they lived on separate coasts. But they were friends. She'd supported Lydia's decision to make her own choices, and Scott hadn't protested her leaving. Lydia didn't have a reason to hate them, to create such an elaborate plan. Stiles did.

"That's how sure everyone else is about Stiles. I know Stiles and Derek both. They're not saints, but then, none of us are. If you'd bothered to actually use your hunter's eyes, you'd notice that it's damaging both of them to be here. Yet here they are. Maybe you should be examining why you don't trust him instead of trying to make it harder for him to help."

Allison struggled for words, face burning from humiliation. Payton had turned the conversation and made her at fault, again. Everyone was turning on her, even her own father. And how could that be, unless Stiles was doing it? The normal team was shattered, the dynamic in a tailspin. And Stiles was claiming he could save them all. How could they not at least acknowledge the possibility that it was all about to go very, very wrong?

 

* * *

 

She'd been relaxing. Relaxed. So relaxed. A bottle of her favorite lager, her tablet, and a bubble bath had been a much deserved reward for enduring a long week at both jobs. Christmas was always a touchy time, the stress getting to everyone. It was a miracle people didn't shift in public, given some of the stories she'd been hearing. Add that to the tensions caused by the local collective (the younger ones were irresponsible at best, recklessly dangerous at worst) and she'd decided to take a page out of her daughter's book and just ignore it for a few hours.

And she'd just started to relax into her novel before her phone had started ringing and Stiles had started talking.

Now she was caught somewhere between furious and desperately afraid. Not only had Stiles gone into enemy territory on his own, but he hadn't said anything to anyone. Derek and Cassie following, taking a skinwalker and a kelpie with them was forcing an eventuality she hadn't thought she'd have to deal with for several more years.

_I'm losing them._

Rick's pensive silence only confirmed it. Her husband's gift had never scared her, and she'd never resented him for it. Not until he'd said 'Cassie might become an alpha', and forced her to acknowledge it might not be her spark that was inherited. A vague possibility that had suddenly become _real_.

_It's too soon._

They'd only just managed to save Stiles, had only begun to see Cassie accept the possibility, had barely started bringing Derek out of himself. None of them were ready to handle the responsibility, the power. Especially not her daughter. Selfishly, Caroline had prayed that it was her death that triggered Cassie's Rise. Not a fight, not the killing of another alpha.

Peter Goddamn Hale. Caroline knew him, insofar as Derek had known him. Memories of him filtered through her consciousness, colored by Derek's perceptions. The wolf had cared nothing for others, only for himself. Broken, irrevocably so. Mad, twisted, ruthless. Any number of adjectives supplied themselves, but she could only think ' _monster_ ', imagining him using children to achieve his own ends.

"Marianne, if it comes to it, I want you to get Cassie away from the fight," She found herself saying, the words forming before she'd been aware of thinking them. Her sister made an angry sound in the back seat.

"You can't stop it if it's meant to happen," Rick said, voice quiet, even to her ears.

"She's not ready."

"No one ever is," Marianne said, voice full of reproach. "I won't keep her from protecting her own. You think she'd ever forgive it, even if it did spare her the Rise?"

"She can blame me."

"You'd lose her."

"I'm losing her anyway," Caroline snarled, not turning to look at her sister. Her Second, her voice of reason. When they'd been young, she'd chosen Marianne because her sister was always calmly pragmatic. Now she resented it, resented having that calm, unforgiving reality forced on her. Marianne had two sons, still young. Neither of them held the potential to become an alpha, and she would probably never shoulder the weight of losing them to another pack, another territory.

"If there's a schism, you'll still have her. But if you try to keep her from protecting Stiles and Derek, you'll never see her again."

Rick was damningly silent in the wake of Marianne's declaration, stared ahead at the road as they drove.

Her sister was right though, for all that Caroline wanted to howl, to drag the trio back to Portland, she couldn't pull Stiles away from his family, and she'd never be able to keep Cassie and Derek away from Stiles.

"We've let them act as their own for the past three years. On your order, we've let it progress naturally. You trusted them to be good for each other, to make one another better," Rick finally said, miles and miles later. "You have to let them bear the responsibility."

It wasn't an accusation, even if Rick had once advised her against that very choice. When he'd told her 'Stiles will make her an alpha', she'd trusted. Maybe it had been hubris that had driven her to think her offspring would all make good alphas, even Cassie. Hubris, and nothing else that had allowed her to set it all in motion by accepting Stiles. (Or hope. Hope that her daughter could grow, that Derek could be healed, that Stiles could be saved. Hope that something good could come of the nightmare Beacon Hills was.)

Her husband reached across the console and grabbed her hand, twining his fingers through hers.

"We'll figure it out," He promised, glancing away from the road long enough to give her a reassuring smile.

Her sister's hands rested on her shoulders, something they'd done ever since they were children in their father's station wagon. "They're going to be fine," Marianne's voice said, her voice full of steady conviction.

There was no lie in her heart.

The drone of the wheels on the road carried on and on, a lullaby in counterpoint to the too fast beating of her heart.

 

* * *

 

Derek listened to the light banter Stiles and Scott threw back and forth, an almost eerie trip back in time to when they'd still been teenagers. It hadn't been so long, he supposed, but so much had happened in the interim. It was enviable, that they could ignore the, the _thing_ between them, whatever it could be called, that they could ignore the looming problem of Peter, who had been the root of the problem from day one.

Or maybe it wasn't so enviable. Maybe it was just desperate. Scott hadn't caught Stiles' little ticks, the tells that had given away his nervousness when his heart hadn't given away a lie. Half truths, omission. Derek knew Stiles, knew that half truths implied things worse than lies could.

It was a nice illusion though, the sense of relaxation. Even when Issac, oozing jealousy and barely repressed anger, stood up and made his declaration and fled, it felt normal. Typical. Scott followed, blushing and looking right at him, like somehow he was involved. And he wasn't. Sometimes it was better to remain on the periphery and watch.

"That went surprisingly well," Stiles said, sounding like he actually believed it. Derek allowed himself a moment of regret, because he was going to be upsetting whatever delicate balancing act Stiles was performing.

"Come on .You didn't replace your bandages." It wasn't satisfying to turn Stiles' tricks on him. He'd have to try later, when Peter wasn't involved. Or Scott, or Issac and Cassie and especially not _John_.

Stiles followed, not resisting. When they were finally in their room, Stiles turned and tensed. Apparently he'd caught on.

"What aren't you telling us?"

"About Allison's mole?" Stiles gibbered, smiling.

"Stiles-"

"Derek," He replied, grinning unrepentantly. Derek pulled out the sketchbook he carried in his messenger bag (that Stiles had given him as a joke, one he'd never cared to understand). A pen followed.

"Are we sketching? Is this pictionary?"

Stiles' deflection worried him, made what he'd thought was something potentially bad take a turn for worse. Catastrophic sounded like a good word. He sat across from Stiles, genuinely paranoid. Stiles was planning something, and he was trying to do it on his own again.

"It's nothing dude." That word again. Nothing. Nothing was always something. Typically something awful.

Derek leaned forward and took Stiles hands between his own, palms and fingers flat in imitation of prayer. Stiles' hands were warm, the pulse in his wrist registering. Too fast, a flutter near Derek's fingertips.

"Please," Derek found himself asking, implying any number of requests.

"This is really unfair of you. You're supposed to use your powers for good, Derek. Remember, we had this conversation."

"What are you not telling me?"

Stiles pulled his hands away. Before Derek could lament the loss of contact, Stiles was writing on the notepad.

_You can't say anything._

He nodded slowly, despite his skepticism. He'd done worse things than make promises he had no intention of keeping.

The explanation sounded- Unnecessarily convoluted. More to the point, it sounded dangerous. Despite that, he waited patiently, because he could tell there was still something being held back, the pen tip touching paper and retreating once, twice.

Stiles finally wrote, the words appearing on the page in sharp, quick movements.

" _No_ ," Derek spat, realizing what Stiles was trying to tell him.

Stiles wrote again, underlining it to emphasize his point.

Derek jumped up, needing to move, to go, to shout at Stiles because it was a stupid plan, dangerous. Of course he should have known better. Stiles would never allow the people he cared about to walk into a dangerous situation without him. The illusion of safety had been just that. An illusion. Derek had little doubt Stiles was the one taking the most dangerous part for himself. Of course he would. It was _Stiles_.

And Stiles probably was the only one that could pull it off. Peter would do what it took to survive. If he had to separate himself from the nemeton, he'd do it. And if anyone could do it without hurting themselves, he could.

The only thing that would accomplished is that Peter would run, and start to plan again.

Derek sat down on the bed and yanked the sketchbook and pen from Stiles.

_What will it do to you?_

Stiles took the pen, his hand unsteady.

_I'll be fine._

Derek stared at the words. Stiles' handwriting had never been and would never be anything close to neat, but it was shakier than normal, the angles sharper. Enough to reinforce what his scent was doing. Nervousness, anxiety, fear. Struggle, determination.

He pulled the paper free of the notebook, ignored Stiles' fear-scent growing strong, more acrid. It shifted abruptly to confusion when he went to the bathroom. Contrary to what he hoped, time didn't reverse itself after he ripped up the pages and flushed the evidence.

"I hate this." And he did. There weren't words in the human language for how much he hated _knowing_ , the sensation of walking a fine line only making it that much harder to ignore how easily it could all go wrong again. Been there, done that. Back again because he apparently hadn't learned his lesson the first few times.

"I know," Stiles sighed. No promises, no reassurances. Just blunt honesty.

He walked back to the bedroom, wanting to lay down. Even if it was just for a little while, he wanted to ignore the world, wanted to pretend his uncle wasn't waiting outside the wards, that Stiles wasn't going to have to face him alone. Stiles followed him, hesitant even as he laid down beside him, his body close enough to feel but not close enough to touch.

"I can get Cassie," Stiles said. And no. Derek didn't want to see Cassie, didn't want to deal with her particular brand of humor or her insinuations or her expectations. He couldn't look at her and lie to her, couldn't pretend everything wasn't exactly as bad, or worse, than it appeared to be.

Throwing an arm over Stiles' waist and pulling him closer was the only comfort he could have, and in a moment of selfishness, he decided to take it. 'Deserve' didn't really mean anything in Beacon Hills.

"You have to come back," He said, the words coming out rougher than he'd intended.

He'd lost two packs in Beacon Hills already. He wasn't sure he could survive the loss of a third, knew he wouldn't want to.

Stiles nodded, the movement only making Derek feel worse, because that meant Stiles didn't know if speaking it aloud would make it a lie. He didn't notice his arms tightening until Stiles shifted, didn't realize he was practically strangling him in some subconscious effort to keep him close, keep him safe. He forced his arms to loosen, could only manage it in increments, minute and barely noticeable.

He was so fucked.

"I meant it, about going to Shaw's," Stiles informed him, minutes later. His heart didn't trip or tick, just beat steadily on.

"I haven't finished your Christmas present." Derek couldn't think of anything better to say. And he hadn't. He'd been working on it since John had mentioned playing chess with Stiles. Derek had noticed a chess set before, when he'd helped Stiles pack up his childhood room, but he'd never seen it out in the house, presumably boxed up in the attic. The set was almost complete, the pieces just needed to be stained.

It would be late, this year. Even if he started the minute he got home.

"You built me a workshop. I think you're covered for like, the next twenty years. I can bitch when I'm forty and you forget," Stiles huffed. And that sounded nice. Twenty years. It was an unconscious commitment, and Derek knew he was reading into it, but he'd allowed himself delusions before. This one wasn't so bad, not at the present moment. Not harmful, at least.

"And I totally got you an awesome present. For the record."

"I think I'll be happy if we make it to Shaw's," He said. Which was true. Making it to Shaw's would be-It would make it real. That they had survived, made it out alive, if not completely unscathed. (Beacon Hills always meant some new scar, no matter how innocuous the visit.) Stiles glared at him, a halfhearted attempt at a reprimand.

"Dude. Waldport. After Marl's, yeah? I want to make him cry. We can take the whole gang. It'll be hilarious." Derek hummed, ignoring Stiles' sigh. Marl's could go to hell. There had to be a decent burger joint closer to I5.

"I need to make the barrier. You'll have to carry it."

"I don't know how." Magic. How the hell was he supposed to accomplish a barrier when he was a werewolf and lacked magic that both Stiles and Peter wielded?

"It'll be tied to something you can wear."

"Like the failsafe?" Derek missed it, found himself reaching for it only to find the empty chain, the reassurance of Stiles' promise gone.

"Something like that," Stiles said, his voice thrumming against Derek's shoulder.

"This is going to work, right?"

"It'll work." Stiles' heart remained steady. Derek listened to it like it was a promise, the only thing keeping him from going straight to John, to Caroline and Rick. They'd probably throw Stiles in a holding cell, keep him locked up until Peter had vanished.

He traced the lines of Stiles' old scars, the ones that had been born out of desperation and loneliness, wondered how many new marks Stiles would have before it was over. Derek remembered envying them, once. Envying that humans could hurt and heal, but that there was always a reminder, evidence to prove that the nightmares were justified, all the paranoia and fear. Night terrors. He'd be having more of those, even with the sleep thorn.

Stiles' breath puffed against his neck, was beginning to even out when Cassie opened the door, smiling widely at the sight of them.

She was going to kill them both when it was over.

"Everyone's back," She told them, leaning against the door frame, smile widening, if it was possible. "It looks like they raided a diner. And Issac looks constipated. Scott looks uncomfortable. It's hilarious."

"Unless they're going to kill something, I don't want to know," Stiles groaned, and it was the truth. Derek couldn't stop a small quirk of his lips at the thought. Miles and Cassie ganging up on Scott and Issac. McCall didn't stand a chance. Issac even less so.

"We'll be down in a few," Derek said, not quite ready to let go of the moment. God only knew what would happen the next day, and he couldn't be blamed for wanting to indulge. His sense of timing had never been appropriate anyway. It was probably worse than Stiles'.

"How does a road trip sound?" Stiles asked. "Like last time, but no dune buggies."

"I like dune buggies." Mostly. It probably had more to do with freaking Stiles out than anything. When it didn't matter, when the injuries were small, there was something reassuring about being yelled at for them.

"I want to see the redwoods, the ones close to the sea."

That was different. Derek couldn't remember the last time he'd seen a redwood. There had been one trip, years and years before, to a park. His entire family, wolves and humans both, had camped illegally and run for miles. They'd been too far inland to sense the sea, and Derek didn't know if redwoods grew that close to the coast.

"Sounds like a plan." If there was a place like that, he'd try to find it, at least.

Stiles finally got up, bitching about food. Something normal, something they could both handle. The world felt surreal, too real and like a movie at the same time, his body not quite his own as he got up to follow. Stiles' stomach growling almost made him smile, except _magic_. It had become habit, feeding Stiles after he did anything, the energy it took seeming to feed from him, depleting his own body. One of his many grudges against the system as a whole. (He knew better than to say anything, knew Stiles would just shut him down. One argument had been enough.)

What was strange though was how people accepted their almost conjoined presence. There were simple nods of acknowledgment, a general sense of relief and hope. The next day and it would be over. Real life would start again. (He hoped.)

The food tasted bland in his mouth, too dry to swallow without coffee.

When he finished, he stuck close to Stiles, felt a curious stare practically burning a hole in his head and met Scott's inquisitive gaze. There were questions there, ones he had no intention of ever answering because-Because he didn't owe Scott anything, because there was nothing to answer with, because because because. He knew he was glaring, saw Scott twitch, drawing Issac's gaze. Banked anger, jealousy (and wasn't that strange?), and resentment. Nothing he wasn't used to, or couldn't ignore.

Stiles tugging on his hand felt too intimate for the setting, but he listened to the unspoken request and followed him back upstairs, quiet and curious. The quiet declaration was a command, and he parted ways, went to the bedroom and waited, wondering what Stiles was up to.

When Stiles came back, he was holding the box of powder and a wooden bowl. Derek watched, eyes at half mast as Stiles went to their bathroom and filled the bowl. Choosing to sit (magic always took forever) he slid down the doorframe until he was blocking the doorway, legs bent to fit him inside the frame.

Blood letting was probably his biggest grudge against magic. Stiles had already died for magic, had bled over and over because of it, and he was still giving parts of himself, willingly hurting himself for whatever cause he deemed important enough. Magic took, and even if the results were amazing, Derek wasn't sure they were worth it. Not really.

"It needs to have your blood too," Stiles said quietly, offering the knife.

Even if it was hypocritical, Derek didn't mind hurting himself. It seemed a small sacrifice, when Stiles would be the one stuck with the marks. He did as he was instructed, Stiles shifting from his normal spastic self to a more solemn version, a persona that Derek didn't like, if only because he only saw it when things had taken a turn for the worse.

When Stiles pulled off his pendant and slid the plain gold bands off of the chain, Derek felt something inside his chest twist painfully. It was on the tip of his tongue to say no, to tell Stiles to find something else when Stiles interrupted, pale cheeks tinting the red of embarrassment.

"These are the best for it. They're linked."

Derek believed in a lot of things, had been shown too much not to believe in the most elaborate magics to the simplest ones. But wedding rings were in a world of their own, like Stiles' heirloom cradle or the pendant Rick had given him. Magics that were created from memories and touch, from the meaning someone imbued in them.

Stiles dropped the rings into the water, the hollow plunk echoed by them landing at the bottom of the bowl. Derek watched as Stiles traced his finger in the water and began to sing.

It was beautiful, accents blending until they were impossible to place, languages shifting into one another like they belonged. Stiles' rhythm matched his heartbeat, the sound of the water following his finger adding depth to the melody. Magic buzzed, hummed over his skin. He felt something hooking into him, his body enveloping the sensation as it settled, matched the beat of his pulse.

When the song finally stopped, Stiles tilted his head and stared at him, looking at peace for the first time since he'd woken up in Melissa's guest room. Peaceful, a little dazed. Stiles shifted forward, his hand reaching out to Derek's neck. In an automatic show of trust, Derek tilted his head back, felt callused fingers sliding over his neck before tugging at the chain.

It was almost disappointing when Stiles moved back, taking his restless fingers with him. Derek pulled the chain over his head and offered it to Stiles, watching intently as the emissary wove it through the gold ring into a knot and handed it back.

Derek knew a lot of things, especially about Stiles. He knew that Stiles held the memory of his parent's marriage as sacred, so much so that he still had problems accepting his father's remarriage. Derek knew that Stiles didn't talk much about his mother, or the idyllic days before the wreck, or how deeply devoted the sheriff had been to the woman even after she'd passed. Most of all, he knew that Stiles kept the rings close to his heart because they symbolized his beginning, that he'd grown out of something pure and beautiful.

It was terrifying to be entrusted with something so important, especially with his track record. His past taunted him, jeering at him with his own memories.

Stiles stared, shy and expectant at the same time. Derek pulled the necklace on and slipped it under his shirt, let it settle against his skin. For all that he wanted to pretend, to continue with the act, he couldn't stop himself from tracing the outline of the ring through the fabric. It was smaller, a little thinner than the one Stiles slid on to his own necklace. Christ, it was his _mother's_ ring. That wasn't at all unnerving. (Derek wondered if he was having a panic attack, if that was why his chest felt so tight.)

He couldn't stop himself from asking. "Are you sure-"

"It'll work," Stiles told him, voice firm. Much steadier than it had any right to be. Derek felt like a well placed tap would shatter him, bare any number of things for the world (for Stiles) to see.

"Not about that. About-" _The ring, you idiot. You just loaned me your mother's wedding ring. How can you be so calm about this?_ Some things were self evident. At least he hoped they were, otherwise Stiles really was an idiot.

"I trust you."

Either Stiles was aware of something he wasn't, had just cause to trust him with something so precious, or he was in love with the world's biggest moron. As much as he wanted to have faith in Stiles' judgment, he was banking on the latter. Had to, given the evidence.

Something changed, the air souring as Stiles began to fidget and babble. He moved restlessly, nervously, looking any and everywhere but at Derek as he started packing things away, pouring the excess water into the sink.

"These have to be buried, and the space needs to be-We'll figure it out, I'm sure Chris has a decent map of the preserve. And I can activate it once he's there. It shouldn't be too difficult to draw him in, and then you can call."

He was trying so hard, and looked exhausted, fraying at the edges. Magic and it's toll. Damnit.

"Stiles, we've gone over this," Derek interrupted, taking the box and setting it on the counter. "Come on. You look tired."

For once, Stiles didn't argue with him about it, just followed him back into the bedroom. Derek, in a rare show of need, pulled Stiles' (his) shirt off and helped him lay down, careful of the exposed sutures. Stiles sighed, a tired, content sound when he started tracing out the lines of the tattoo, habit and comfort to them both.

Derek thought about Stiles sitting in an old cabin, like he'd described. A huge fire only a few feet away as an old man poked at his back, pushing ink into his skin with a needle. Painful and arduous, an eternity of little pricks and pokes. "I wish I had been there," He admitted. "I wish that you hadn't been alone for this."

"I wish I'd been with you when you made the shift," Stiles answered, turning his head to to face him. "I feel like I should have been there."

Derek almost smiled at the odd longing in Stiles' tone. Funny, because he'd been thinking of Stiles when it had happened, had been imagining how it would be to have him home again. "Sum presentialiter absens in remota."

Stiles frowned slightly, but didn't press. Derek wondered if he understood it, knew that language classes didn't make up for poetic flourishes and alterations. But Stiles didn't ask, instead tugging at the chain and pulling the ring from under his shirt. He flipped it back and forth between his long, restless fingers, let it slide and slip over his fingertips and off again.

Denied one tattoo, Derek traced the lines of the other, the Cyrillic letters offering stronger angles and curves, foreign but familiar.

"Ždi menja i ja vernus, vsem smertjam nazlo," Stiles mumbled, cheeks tinting with heat. Derek remembered exactly what Stiles had said when he'd come back from Rick's, still riding the tail end of an endorphin rush. It had been different then.

"That's not what you said last time."

"Because I said something different," Stiles replied sharply, refusing to meet his gaze.

Despite wanting to, Derek didn't demand a translation, chose to ignore his curiosity and let his fingers trace the Cyrillic letters while Stiles continued to flip the ring back and forth through his fingers, his heartbeat picking up speed. There was a sense of expectation, of waiting. He hadn't forgotten what it meant, but that had been _then_ and now-

He'd never considered it beyond burying it down, ignoring it in the hopes it would eventually go away.

"We're really bad at this, aren't we?" Stiles asked.

Derek felt the laugh come out before he even realized it was building.

"My tattoo, it means-"

Derek felt himself shaking his head. _Not yet, not here._ Some things were too sacred for Beacon Hills to know. "Tell me when we get home."

Stiles stared for a moment, eyes focused on him with unwavering intensity. A moment later he was straddling Derek's hips and staring down at him, seeing any number of things Derek didn't want him to see, because vulnerability would always be terrifying. But Stiles-

Stiles had used it against him before, could do it again. But he wouldn't. It was terrifying, exhilarating, to realize that what Stiles _wasn't_ didn't matter nearly so much as what he _was_.

When Stiles finally leaned down, chapped, dry lips pressing against his, Derek didn't try to stop him. For a moment, he didn't do anything at all, wasn't sure how to react because the eventuality had never occurred to him, Stiles actually wanting anything more than the simple, easy thing they'd shared. Want was easy to ignore when it required the sacrifice of the known, of comfort and trust. A harsh exhale fanned over his face before he began to move back, scent bleeding the first tinges of panic and uncertainty.

Derek allowed himself to take, to slide his fingers into Stiles' hair and keep him from pulling away. Stiles' groan thrummed over and through him, made it easier to keep him close and taste. Quiet whimpers and harsh breaths panted out, lost between their mouths and the wet slide of their tongues. Stiles was warmth and movement, a blur of sensations and scent that surrounded and encompassed, left him dizzy and lost.

_Too much too muchtoomuchtoomuch._

Too fast when he'd been ignoring his body for years, ever since he'd seen Jennifer's face change,seen Stiles _crying_ for the first time. (He'd thought only, then. First and only, and life had given him _this_.) Overwhelmed, he pulled back, felt like his body was on the verge of breaking apart, his lungs starved and his brain fizzing in his skull. Stiles' voice brushed over his face, fingertips moving and Derek couldn't stop, didn't remember how. His hips bucked up, ground into Stiles' on instinct, the want pulling him in a hundred directions, guided by the sound of Stiles whispering his name over and over.

Stiles was sweat and arousal and need, lips pressing against his and teeth tugging at his lip, biting down until pain cut through the haze and he was opening his eyes, forced to look. Stiles stared back, lips flush red and kiss bruised, eyes focused, looking into him, unflinching.

"Stay with me." A plea that Derek didn't entirely understand even though he silently promised that he would, that he wasn't sure he could let go when the pieces of himself were falling away, leaving him with nothing. Hollow places that devoured Stiles' whimpers and pants, the gasping, choked inhales and groaning exhales that bled into him.

Life didn't give him things, it took. And Derek was selfish, hadn't changed so much that he wouldn't take what was offered, no matter the consequences. Stiles was giving something, taking something. It wasn't anything at all like Kate's promise of adventure or Jennifer's attempts to soothe his pain. It was just need. Derek had always tried to escape into other people, had never succeeded. But now he was drinking Stiles in, trying to memorize everything. Things to hold, to keep safe because Stiles wouldn't allow himself the luxury of safety, wouldn't let himself have more than _moments_.

The scent of Stiles' come, the abrupt break of tension and the almost pained cry muffled by their mouths pulled Derek over and down, the unbearable ache shattering and leaving him loose and heavy limbed, exhausted and carved open, hollowed out.

For an eternity they both tried to breathe, to regain an equilibrium that had been shifted. His skin was too tight over his muscles and bones, the rasp of fabric over flesh almost unbearable.

It took conscious effort to force his arms to loosen their hold on Stiles. Derek was strangely gratified when Stiles didn't pull away or roll off, just shifted so that his head rested on his shoulder. Trembling and shudders still wracked his form. Derek was struck by how fragile Stiles felt, suddenly. Like a bird, hollow boned and easily broken.

"When we get home, you're teaching me Russian." Maybe childishly, he was clinging to the hope that things wouldn't change, at least not for the worst, that he hadn't somehow tempted fate by giving in, by taking. _Home_. It must have meant something to Stiles, who relaxed and nodded, the tension easing and leaving him pliant and relaxed.

Even after Stiles fell asleep, Derek stared at the ceiling and hoped that he hadn't prepared himself for Stiles to die, that he wasn't hoarding memories because there would never be a chance for more.

 

* * *

 

Scott was completely fascinated by the way Stiles worked. When they'd been kids, when Stiles' mom was still alive, there had been singing. All the time. In the car, at the house, even on the playground; songs on the radio, children's rhymes, songs he hadn't understood. He'd forgotten over the years how much singing there had been. After Stiles' mother had died he'd tried _once_ , and Stiles had exploded in a tantrum and pushed him down.

He'd skinned a knee, but the worst part had been how Stiles had cried, how he had cried with him because Stiles was sad in a way he'd never been sad before, and he hadn't known how to help. Scott had silently vowed to never sing again, even though he hadn't entirely understood why.

But Stiles hummed and sang under his breath. It had been disconcerting, the day before, Stiles humming a song, more so than Derek touching him with familiar, easy affection.

And now he was humming and singing, using his writing to create a rhythm. Soothing wasn't quite the word for it, but it made something in Scott's chest relax. Even as the spiral became more and more complex, the symbols stranger and stranger to him, he didn't really mind that he didn't understand. Stiles and magic fit, like Stiles and singing fit.

Scott knew he'd missed a lot. More than he'd ever forgive himself for, if he was being honest. Stiles and magic, Stiles and Derek, Stiles and languages. Stiles singing again. Stiles growing into something almost at odds with who he'd been as a teenager. His brother wasn't completely lost to the man he'd become, wasn't an utter stranger, but there were things Scott never would have expected. The steadiness of his brother's hand was one of those things, his focus, the deep resonance of his voice.

When Stiles finished, Scott finally looked at the spell.

"That looks complicated." Like something Lydia would do.

"What's in the center?" Derek asked. Stiles was silent for a moment, eyes looking at the strange design in the center.

"Miǫtvið. The fate tree. Seemed appropriate."

Of course it was another tree. Scott was beginning to resent the hell out of his tattoo. If only coverups worked for werewolves. "Some day we're going to find a better symbol than a tree. Like a dolphin or something."

"Derek?" Stiles said, turning the name into a question. Scott glanced over at Derek, saw him staring at the center with unnerving intensity. "You okay man?"

"Is it a stave?"

Scott wondered what a stave was.

"Technically, yeah. Custom order for the occasion."

That sounded ominous.

"Would it be okay to put on something?"

Stiles' hesitation was obvious, even as he gave the okay. There was a strange, unsettling tension that only seemed to keep growing with every second that passed.

"Hey, didn't vikings draw runes for luck in battle?" Scott blurted, immediately berating himself.

Stiles chuckled, though it didn't sound all that amused. "Seriously?"

Sometimes it was better to just keep going. The worst that Stiles could do was say no. "We've got the time."

"I was not trained to pull rabbits out of hats on command."

Jesus, he hadn't even thought of it like that. Was it against some sort of etiquette to ask? Or maybe-Maybe Stiles just didn't want to. Magic was personal, wasn't it? "If you're not up for it, I understand." And he did, even if he didn't particularly like it. It wasn't like he actually had a right to ask in the first place.

"Oh my god, quit with the anime eyes," Stiles growled, covering his eyes with his hand. It was Classic Stiles, and it made something in his chest _twist._. "I must have sucker written on my forehead in neon lettering."

"You really do," Derek said, sounding amused by the situation.

"Let me grab a pen. We'll do this downstairs. Reaching across a a doorway is bad luck, and I don't care how superstitious I sound, I don't feel like chancing anything today."

He didn't leave, so Issac didn't. Derek was watching Stiles' careful movements as he navigated the outside of the spiral, careful not to walk on the lines. When Stiles produced a sharpie, Scott felt his eyebrow raise of it's own volition. Of everything he'd expected, a sharpie was probably close to the bottom of the list. Sharpies just weren't very magical.

"Expecting me to carve it in dude?" Stiles asked, smirking. Scott felt his face flood with heat. "It's not always blood and animal skulls."

"Thank god," Derek muttered, already heading for the stairs. Scott moved to follow, knew it would relax Derek if he and Issac went with him instead of sticking close to Stiles. Small things, maybe. Hopefully things that would show effort, something.

"Is that why you built the workshop?" Stiles called out, laughing. "You got tired of all the stray animal bits in the house?"

"Stray _what_?" Scott pictured any number of things. All of them unpleasant. And Derek had built him a workshop? What the hell did Derek _do_ now?

When he got downstairs, Scott took a seat at the table across from Stiles, Issac sitting next to him. His beta's posture screamed 'protection', and Scott wanted to snap at him to back off, to stop being so childish, but it wouldn't do any good, and Stiles actually seemed not to notice. Although Derek did. Another incongruous juxtaposition. Issac protecting him, Derek protecting Stiles. Time and fate playing the shell game with all of them, switching them around and around until there was only the strange and unexpected.

"Alright, so," He tried, beginning to feel uncomfortable. A sharpie meant relatively easy magic, right? Nothing too elaborate or-Or whatever.

"Arms," Stiles said. Scott obeyed, laying his arms across the table's surface. "Palm up," Stiles added.

There was a moment of tension, and Scott wondered if he'd pushed Stiles too far after all.

"Are you sure about this?" Stiles asked, looking up to meet his gaze. "It's magic. I've already cursed you this week."

"Issac said you did it to find me." Even though Issac had been angry and afraid, it hadn't actually detracted from what Stiles had done for him. For them. "And it worked. Obviously you're good at this. So yes, I'm sure."

Stiles uncapped the marker and hesitated only once before pressing the tip to the vulnerable skin of Scott's wrists.

"An eleventh I know," Stiles sang. Scott listened intently, staring at Stiles' face instead of his wrists, the scent of sharpie burning the inside of his nostrils. "If needs I must lead to war my long loved friends; I sing to the shields, and in strength they go. Whole to the field of fight, whole from the field of fight. And whole they will come home."

Scott hadn't known what to expect, but the rhyme was surprisingly poignant, sounded so important coming from Stiles. A reassurance, a promise. Something Stiles might have never said when they were teenagers, but felt.

When Stiles began to withdraw, Scott couldn't stop himself from reaching out and grasping his brother's hand. It wasn't a fix, wouldn't undo years of mistakes. But it was a start, a reminder. Some things never changed. Stiles' steady devotion, even if the person didn't deserve it, was one of those things. Still solid, even though he wasn't pack. Brother. Scott knew now that he'd been an idiot to think one had depended on the other.

"Thanks."

"Not a problem," Stiles said, expression open and sincere.

"Was that a spell?" Issac asked when they'd released each other's hands.

"Viking poetry, available at your local library or online for perusal," Stiles quipped, offering a small, false smirk. Scott wondered if he'd gone too far, yet again. When Stiles turned around to look for Derek, Scott realized that Derek had slipped out, entirely unnoticed.

"He went upstairs while you and Scott were having your moment," Issac said, voice chilly. Scott felt a reprimand readying itself even as Stiles flipped them off and left the room, obviously headed for Derek.

"Why are you acting like this?" Scott asked quietly, finally turning to look at Issac. His boyfriend, his beta. The lines were always difficult to navigate, but right now he felt less like a boyfriend and more like Issac's alpha.

"He hurt you."

"We hurt each other. And he didn't do anything to you. What happened is between Stiles and me."

"You're my boyfriend."

"And he's my brother," Scott said, forcing his voice to remain soft, if only to cushion the blow. Issac had never liked Stiles, but he'd had a brother once. He had to understand. Ultimately, it was no more and no less than some of the things the pack had done to one another over the course of years. It had only hurt more because he'd never expected it from Stiles. But Stiles had been reacting to him, and hadn't really hurt anyone else. Issac's continued resentment was only going to make repairing the relationship that much harder.

"When this is over, I want to try and fix things with Stiles, if he's open to it. You can like it or hate it, but you need to at least be civil." Scott had already missed too much. If there was a chance he could somehow fix things, somehow be a part of Stiles' life again, he'd do whatever it took. Issac and Allison both would have to respect that, respect him and his choice.

Otherwise, it was possible 'boyfriend' would be entirely lost to 'alpha'.

 

* * *

 

"So. Stiles and you," Scott said, glancing over at him.

"No," Derek bit out. The last person he was going to have that discussion with was Scott. He hadn't even had it with Stiles.

"So I take it congratulations are in order?" Issac drawled from the back seat. "Or should we check him for possession first?"

Scott's outraged snarl was abruptly cut off when Derek slammed on the brakes, pitching both Scott and Issac forward. Fortunately, neither of them were wearing their seatbelts, the product of overconfidence. Unfortunately, Scott caught the brunt of it, his head slamming against the dashboard. Issac made quiet gasping sounds, but looked relatively unscathed. Derek hoped there was some sort of internal damage. A punctured lung would be nice, but cracked ribs would do. He wasn't picky.

"What the fuck?" Scott demanded. Derek turned, itching and ready to go. His past was one thing, but Stiles was a different matter entirely, and he was ready to tell them to back off or walk. But Scott was glaring at Issac, fangs, red eyes and all. The alpha was well and truly pissed off. "Issac, what the hell is wrong with you?"

"Derek's track record speaks for itself," Issac shrugged. Despite his attempt at nonchalance, Derek could practically taste Issac's resentment. It had been kept leashed at the house, but now it seemed to be coming out full force. Maybe he'd expected Scott to back him. Jesus, Derek had expected Scott to support Issac, not turn on him.

"I have never, _ever_ been more disappointed in you," Scott snapped, the threat of an alpha to a beta coming through loud and clear. Issac opened his mouth to protest and Scott shook his head violently. "Don't talk unless it's to apologize."

Issac glared back defiantly before lowering his gaze, his obvious resentment making a mockery of shame. "Sorry."

"Not until you mean it!"

Silence reigned for several moments before Derek eased off of the brakes and starting driving for the preserve. Derek tried to figure out what the hell was going on, because even if Scott was trying to be supportive, the last opinion Derek cared about (or for) was his. Except Scott had stopped being the boyish buddy alpha for a moment, sounding more like Caroline chastising one of her own.

Over his-Whatever it was with Stiles. Over him.

"I'm sorry about that," Scott said several minutes later.

Derek made a noncommittal sound. Sometimes it was better to just stay quiet. Especially when it involved pissed off alphas.

"Thanks."

"For what?" _Not killing your beta? Saving your ass? Allowing Stiles to stick around to his own detriment?_

"For keeping Stiles safe."

And the conversation was _over_ , because there were a lot of things to be said about Stiles and how his safety had become Derek's concern. None of them should be said in the cab of his truck. Especially not when he was on his way to trap his uncle and kill him a second time.

The rest of the drive was quiet. Issac pouted in the backseat, glaring any time Derek checked the mirror for traffic behind them. It was easy enough to handle, especially with Scott brooding next to him. Whatever was going on, it wasn't Derek's business. Issac's issue with him would be resolved the minute he left town. If he was lucky, he'd never have to deal with it again.

When they parked behind the SUV, Derek didn't take offense to Issac bolting, immediately heading for Allison and Chris.

"I meant it. I'm glad Stiles had you to count on."

"He should have had you," Derek said, pulling his keys free and making sure the vials were still in his pocket.

Scott stopped him from getting out, a firm hand on his shoulder. Derek just barely managed to keep from snarling at him, the presumption too much. It was a near thing, but the sound stayed in his chest, almost painful.

"You're right. I'm admitting that, okay? I really screwed up. But I love him. He's my brother. And I don't get it, why he went to you. But I'm glad he did."

"Scott," He bit out, wanting to break something. Preferably bones.

"Yeah?"

"Not the time." He doubted there would ever be a time for that conversation.

Scott offered a lopsided smile. "You sound like him."

Derek pulled away, got out of the car because that-That was enough emotional bullshit between him and Scott.

Issac, Chris and Allison were waiting in the designated clearing. Allison was watching him like she expected him to turn on her at any moment, which, fair. He wasn't particularly fond of her, and Issac's obvious resentment only seemed to bolster her personal grudge. Fine, whatever.

He buried the vials, eyes on the sun's descent.

Only minutes after he'd finished, his phone rang. It was startling, breaking through the silence like a bomb. When he pulled it free of his pocket, he frowned at Stiles' name and answered. Everyone else watched him intently, Scott most of all.

"Stiles?"

"He's here," Stiles stammered, voice tinny. "Derek, Peter's _here_."

"Stay in the workroom," Derek snapped, already running for his truck. Scott kept pace with him, ignored the others as they ran ahead. Just like old times. "Stay on the line."

"I can go ahead with the casting," Stiles said, voice too loud even through the phone.

"Stay on the phone!"

"I'll leave the line open, but I can do it now."

"That's a stupid idea!"

"I won't have to go so far for plan b now," Stiles reminded him. "Now quiet, I need to-"

Derek heard the sound of something crashing, breaking. A door. It was obviously the door. "Stiles!" His voice pitched with panic as he yanked open the door to his truck and slid in. Fuck. Peter was there, with Stiles. Peter had gotten past the wards. Fuck plan b. Peter was obviously smarter than they'd given him credit for.

He took the moment between Scott opening the door and slamming it to howl a warning, trusting that Caroline or Cassie would hear it. Violence, panic, rage. Something had gone wrong. Cassie would get them to the house.

"What was plan B?" Scott demanded as the car jerked back and around in a hasty three point, tires kicking up a dust cloud around them.

"Hello Stiles." It was the first time he'd heard his uncle in years. Derek had been sure he'd left, gone to make someone elses' life miserable. The truth of the fire, of Kate, had been the last words between them.

"All that magic and you're still stumped by mountain ash. Must suck."

_Don't antagonize him. Goddamnit Stiles._

"What was plan b?" Scott demanded again.

"Call John, let him know where Peter is, and make sure he calls Caroline and Rick," Derek said, ignoring the question in favor of listening to his phone. Even with it on his leg he could hear the conversation clearly.

"Derek, he can't get in. I can still do it."

"He got into the barrier!" Derek snarled, angry that he'd thought they could ever outwit his uncle.

"I bound my spark to Lydia's a long time ago," Peter's voice declared. Derek could _see_ the smug grin.

"Son of a bitch. You could have gotten in any time."

They'd gotten it so incredibly wrong. It was the past all over again, all of them ignoring the glaringly obvious.

"Stiles!" Derek called out. At least the mountain ash was keeping Peter out. That had to count for something. Scott's voice next to him was too loud, but not loud enough to drown out John's angry, desperate shouting. The line went dead and it took a moment to realize that it was John's line, not Stiles'.

"I'm still doing it," Stiles said into the phone. "You know, I always wondered it was like to be the burnt end of a matchstick."

That was an uncomfortable comparison, considering what he was about to try.

"I'm so glad you didn't take the bite," Peter's voice tried.

"Derek, what was plan B?" Scott demanded again.

"Not yet, Peter might hear," Derek snarled impatiently, taking another turn. His uncle continued to talk, apparently still in love with ability to monologue. Stiles' voice started, harsh and guttural over the phone. Nothing at all like the magic he normally created, nothing like when he sang.

He heard the sound of a police siren as he got closer to Lydia's neighborhood. Good, John was stepping on it. Hopefully Caroline would too.

When the chanting began to steady out, Derek heard Peter speaking to him for the first time in almost four years.

"Hello nephew."

"If you touch him I'll kill you."

"He is impressive, isn't he? Almost makes me wish I'd used him instead of Lydia."

Derek snarled, the sound echoed by Scott.

"You even have little Scott with you. Just like old times, isn't it?"

"I'll rip your throat out," Scott snarled. Not if Derek got there first.

Peter's chuckle was abruptly cut off by a surprised hiss.

"Stiles?" Derek tried. But Stiles' chanting continued.

"So clever," Peter snarled, just loud enough to be heard from some other part of the house. Derek put the phone to his ear, strained to hear something, anything over Stiles' chanting.

"Derek, what's going on?" Scott demanded.

"Stiles is tying Peter to the nemeton," Derek snapped.

"And _that_ was plan b?" Scott demanded incredulously.

"It was plan a the whole time," Derek muttered, running through a red light. The sirens were almost unbearably loud. "Make the tie permanent like yours and then burn him out with the power of the nemeton."

"And you guys thought that was a good idea?" Scott demanded, voice flat. "Supercharging him in the hope he fries?"

"Stiles knows what he's doing." He hoped.

John was glaring at the property when they got there. Derek flung himself out, already trying to walk up the drive, but he was stopped at the border.

"I can't get in," John declared.

"Peter's connected to Lydia," Derek said, searching his memory. The wards were keyed in to Lydia, Peter must have locked them all out somehow. And Stiles in, with him.

John already had his phone out, was listening to a ring before Melissa picked up. Panic choked him, pressed down on his lungs as he listened to them, listened to the noises coming from the house. Something crashed loudly over the sound of Stiles' chanting. Peter let out an outraged bellow.

Melissa said she'd try to wake Lydia up before John hung up, staring at the house.

Chris' SUV was followed by Miles' truck and Caroline's SUV, people spilling out in a crush that felt suffocating. Cassie immediately latched onto him. It was almost too much, his first instinct to snarl and rip himself free, but Cassie was glaring at the barrier, face already lost to the mask of her beta form.

"Peter's somehow tied the wards to himself," Rick told them, staring at the house. "Stiles-" He almost sounded faint, face paling. "Stiles is manipulating the currents."

"What's Peter doing?" Scott snarled impatiently, eyes red.

Rick shook his head, oblivious the ire provoked by his vagueness. "He's downstairs, but he's tied to the nemeton now, not just bridged. Derek, is Stiles-"

"He's trying to burn Peter out," Derek confirmed, forcing himself to stay calm, to talk a deep breathe.

"Jesus Christ," Rick breathed, running a hand through his hair.

"Feels like a whirlpool," Payton agreed. "Pulling everything in."

"What's that mean?" Chris snapped. He was ignored. Derek barely noticed, except for Issac and Allison's rumblings.

Caroline demanded, taking command of the situation. "We can't all stand out here staring. It'll draw too much attention."

"I'm not leaving," Cassie snarled at her mother. "Stiles is in there."

"What's the layout of the property?" Caroline asked, ignoring the glares being sent her way.

"The back," Derek told them, a half forgotten memory. "There's some cover between it and the next property. A dozen acres or so of trees."

Scott and Caroline were moving, Cassie dragging him along with her. Rick and John were talking, hurrying on their too human feet, ahead of Chris and Allison and Issac, the trio opening the back of the SUV.

Derek was certain that guns weren't going to do them much good.

"Did anyone see a spell structure of any sort?" Rick asked, voice sharp as they stopped, still held at bay by the wards. Derek heard something crashing inside the house. Stiles' voice rang out, loud and clear in the upstairs room.

"He said something-" Scott tried, shaking his head. "A fate tree? Derek, do you remember?"

Derek shook his head. "I think I can draw it," He amended. "The one in the center." He doubted he'd ever forget, the symbol striking a chord in him, pulling at him and forcing his attention. At the time he'd just thought it looked interesting, but now it felt like an itch under his skin, incessant harassment via magic.

Rick held him hand out. Derek traced the lines on the man's palm with the pointed tip of a claw, leaving a trail of white that vanished almost as soon as it was made.

"I've never seen this one before," Rick said, glaring at his hand as if it was somehow at fault.

"Can you figure it out?" Caroline asked, hand gripping her husband's arm in a show of support.

"It would take time. Days, at least. And then it's only guesswork," The emissary said, looking frustrated, helpless and angry that he couldn't provide a quick answer.

Derek heard people debating, bickering, outright arguing. John remained firmly rooted at his side, staring at the house. Cassie and Scott moved to stand on his other side, visibly straining to hear what was inside.

It sounded like chaos in the house, bangs and crashes, Stiles' chanting and Peter's howls. When John made a muffled sound, Derek wanted to reach out, to reassure the man that his son would be alright, but he couldn't make himself move, couldn't stop listening, peering into the windows like they'd offer a view of what was happening.

 

* * *

 

She woke with a scream, the world _pushingpushingpushing_ at her. Pressure bore down on her, the sensation of everything balancing on a pin, on the edge of a cliff dragging her into consciousness.

"Lydia!" Melissa shouted. She felt hands on her shoulders, shaking her.

She slammed her mouth shut, felt the sensation of the coil tensing, readying to snap.

 _Stiles_. Oh god. Stiles. He was in the center of that. He was the one _doing_ that.

"My house," She stuttered out, somehow managing to keep from falling back into another scream as she pulled at the tubes leading into her. The indignity would have bothered her, if she could actually make herself care. But there was only the pressure in her skull, the sense of something held too tightly, about to explode out. The earth remained poised on a knife edge, unnaturally still.

"Lydia, we need to-"

"We need to get to my house, right now. I will go with or without you," She snapped impatiently, ignoring the flash of pain that came from pulling out the needle in her arm.

Melissa tried to help her dress.

"I'm fine," She bit out coldly, ignoring Melissa's look of doubt.

They were out the door and in Melissa's car in minutes. It still felt too long.

When the precarious balance shifted, tipped, Lydia covered her mouth with both hands, choked back a shriek as the world rocked and exploded. The wail built in her throat as the dissonance peaked, then spread. Nuclear fallout. It was the only comparison she could think of, trying to shield herself from the worst of it as it pulsed and crashed through the territory, resonating in her ears like a bomb. Ringing followed, the drone of tinnitus making her deaf to everything but the crest and break of the aftershocks, wave upon wave attempting to find the proper channel instead of following the path of least resistance.

(It felt like causality warred with convenience, tangled up somewhere along Time spread out in a game of cat's cradle.)

When they got there, she felt everyone gathered in the back, whispers lost in the upheaval. Trapped outside, in the storm. Melissa dragged her around the side of the house, the backyard blocked by the tall privacy fence.

She couldn't feel Stiles in there.

"I can get in," She told them, pulling at Melissa. It was true. She could hear it, could hear Peter's voice and Stiles' humming combined, a place between pitches that would allow her to slip through. "Let me go. He needs help-"

"Peter is in there, alive," Allison said. "You're not going in alone."

"I need to go in there, he's there, he needs my help," She tried, disoriented. The magic still hadn't settled, the currents whirling madly, trying to suck her down.

"Lydia," Derek said, voice calm. "Look at me." It was a command, his voice cutting through the ringing in her ears. She peered up at him, saw pale eyes, resolute and steadfast. Calm. He was so _calm_ , the first steady thing she'd felt since waking.

"Can you get me in?"

She nodded. Maybe.

"Do it."

There were whispers of dissent, but she couldn't make them out. Sigils and spells slipped through her mind, over and over, a cycle of everything she'd learned over the course of years. Tears burned her eyes because she couldn't think of anything-

"Lydia," Derek said, hands on her shoulders. She swallowed the wail that wanted to escape, knew it was reflex, an instinct she'd thought trained into submission. Reaching out, she looked, was turning her gaze to the wards when she caught it, a tiny sliver of something, incomplete.

"Turn around," She commanded, the first steady words she'd said since waking. Derek turned obediently, his motions mechanical, tense.

_There._

"Did Stiles ward you?"

Derek began shaking his head when he stopped. "He was tracing something on my back before I left."

"It's incomplete," She said, more to herself than anyone else. Incomplete, but the base was there, the intent. She recognized it from one of their skype sessions while Stiles was in Norway. He'd been telling her about an old grimiore. Between the two of them, they'd tried to figure out the purpose, making a few educated guesses.

"I don't recognize that," Rick admitted, coming up next to her. "I can feel it but-"

"It's from an Icelandic text," She replied absently, already trying to complete the lines, tie the intents together. She wasn't as good as Stiles was at it, which would have chaffed in a past life, but Stiles sang to the world in a way she envied, wanted to learn. But he couldn't hear it, couldn't read the equations like she could.

Trade for trade. Halves of a whole. _'You can't have it all.'_ But she'd done more with less, had forced her way into places and taken things that had been denied to her. Nothing had gotten the best of her yet-

_That's it._

The sigil snapped to life.

"Done."

Derek bolted. She watched, feeling like he'd taken her breath with him. Noise rose back up, swelled in volume, discordant notes. Voices. Everyone was telling him to come back.

A moment later she felt something extinguished inside of her, buried in the recesses of her mind. A hollow space that echoed at the sudden, excruciating loss.

_Peter PeterPeterPeterPeter_

She ignored everyone, ran into the wards because Peter was dead, his spark gone entirely. It was a freedom she'd never known she'd needed, the jagged, screaming pain left behind not comparing to the lightness that carried her forward, left her feeling weightless and free.

They were in the den, Peter's blind gaze looking up at the hole in the ceiling, his neck and torso ripped open. Blood was everywhere, choking the room with the scent of copper. Derek was in the middle of the wreckage of wood and slate, holding Stiles close to him. Blood covered them both, smeared and dotted all over Derek's arms and face, all over _Stiles_.

Stiles was completely silent, not even a whisper to hint at life.

Red eyes glared at her, a roar echoing through the house. She felt the command in it, felt anguish and pain, heard power trying to mend the broken pieces of Derek's sanity back together, an out of control conflagration sweeping over shattered bits of glass. Lydia had seen so many things, but Derek was something out of a nightmare, broken and terrifying. Old pain bent him low, hunched him over Stiles' prone form.

Rising. Wolves always called it The Rise. For the first time she understood why they didn't call it ascension, why the people that had witnessed it, experienced it, barely spoke of it at all. Ascension sounded beautiful, reverent. The power roiling inside of Derek, forcing flesh and bone to acclimate to it was old and dark, steeped in savagery. It was fire, the sound of it snapping and bellowing in her skull. The only thing holding Derek in place, keeping him from spreading out and consuming everything was Stiles, quiet and still.

She stumbled back when another roar echoed through the house, a threat to leave, to let him mourn in peace.

By the time it ended, she was running out of the back door, away from the utter silence where Stiles should be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stiles may have screwed up. ::ahem:: And that's all I can really say at this point without giving spoilers for the next part of the story. But he isn't dead I promise. There was only Peter Death, NOT Stiles death.
> 
> Was that Scott putting Stiles' well being above Allison and Issac's? ::cough:: Anywho. There's a lot about power dynamics (and clearly unhealthy ones) in the show, and even in this fic. It's something that's going to be explored further. But the idea of an alpha and a beta being in a relationship is tricky at best, unethical at worst. 
> 
> Allison does have a point. Stiles' timing is suspect as hell, and he's effectively shutting her out of the action, which is questionable. But how she expresses it (I'm sorry, but none of them react well to stress, including her) makes everyone pretty much ignore her. Likewise, Issac has every reason to distrust Stiles, especially after what Stiles said to him. 
> 
> Did you know that in dueling, Seconds were actually supposed to try reconciling the conflict before allowing the actual duel to occur? In fic there's a lot of mention of Seconds, but it usually implies second in command, which does make sense. But I also imagine that because an alpha's instincts can be so complete, there would need to be a voice of reason (one that understands more than an emissary would) to try and keep the alpha grounded. (yay headcanon!)


End file.
